iiiiiii 


'lliliiiliil: 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


I 


THE   PLAY  OF  TODAY 


This  timely  xoorTc  is  endorsed  by  The  Drama 
League  of  America,  and  is  commended  to  its  mem- 
bers as  one  of  the  most  valuable  among  recent 
publications  on  the  subject,  and  of  especial  interest 
to  all  students  of  the  Drama. 

Board  of  Directors 

Drama  League  of  America 


THE 

PLAY  OF  TODAY 

STUDIES  IN  PLAY- STRUCTURE 

FOR 

THE  STUDENT  AND  THE  THEATRE-GOER 


BY 
ELIZABETH  R.  HUNT 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN   LANE   COxMPANY 
MCMXIII 


Copyright,  1913, 
By  John  Lane  Company 


THE   UNIVERSITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

IN  the  hope  of  interesting  those  who  recognize  the 
ffisthetic  and  social  values  of  the  acted  drama,  and 
are  willing  to  be  at  reasonable  pains  to  grasp  its 
structure  and  methods  of  appeal,  so  that  they  may 
meet  good  plays  halfway  when  they  are  presented  in 
the  theater,  this  book  is  offered  to  the  public. 

There  are  playgoers  and  playgoers.  The  best  play- 
goer is  he  whose  enjoyment  is  greatest.  To  give  pleas- 
ure is  the  most  logical  reason  for  producing  plays ;  to 
get  pleasure,  the  most  sensible  reason  for  going  to  see 
them.  Even  the  desire  to  "  see  something  funny  "  is 
absolutely  rational.  The  shock  of  hearty  laughter  is 
invigorating  and  refreshing.  It  stimulates  the  circula- 
tion and  rids  digestion.  And  since,  in  existing  condi- 
tions, the  usual  time  for  our  souls  to  have  their 
advcntuies  with  dramatic  masterpieces  is  the  relaxed 
and  digestive  interval  between  dinner  and  the  suburban 
trains,  it  is  not  unaccountable  that  the  amusing  play 
is  popular. 

It  is  unfortunate,  however,  not  to  enjoy  anything 
but  laughter  in  the  theater.  For  even  if  the  exhausted 
moderns  who  profess  to  care  for  notlilng  but  fun  could 
see  farcical  plays  continually,  they  might  grow  as  tired 
of  them  as  of  everything  else.  But  good  farce  is 
always  so  rare  as  to  limit  the  theatergoing  of  those 
who  tolerate  no  other  sort  of  play.  Depending  solely 
upon  mirth  for  the  restoration  of  our  jaded  faculties, 


2083504 


viii  PREFACE 


we  might  all  perish  of  fatigue  in  the  course  of  one 
theatrical  season. 

Fortunately  there  is  another  kind  of  enjoyment  in 
the  theater  which  is'  as  rational  and  beneficial,  and 
ought  to  be  well  nigh  as  universal  as  the  love  of  laugh- 
ter. It  is  the  delight  which  springs  from  the  recogni- 
tion of  points  well  made,  attention  economized,  and 
dramatic  effects  triumphantly  brought  off  —  the  kind 
of  delight  which  makes  the  spectator  say  to  himself 
or  to  his  neighbor,  "  Well  done !  "  and  perhaps  applaud 
and  cry  "  Bravo  !  " 

This  demands  a  certain  receptivity  and  capacity 
for  appreciation.  But  it  is  a  mistaken  notion  that  to 
be  thus  receptive  is  the  exclusive  privilege  of  the  stu- 
dent of  dramaturgies,  or  the  professional  critic,  or 
the  man  of  letters.  The  drama  (we  say  it  again  and 
again)  is  the  most  democratic  and  whole-souled  of 
the  arts.  The  secrets  of  its  power  are  not  locked 
away  from  any  one.  A  sound  and  sane  unprofessional 
knowledge  of  the  means  used  in  good  drama  to  create 
successful  effects  is  not  a  matter  of  high  culture  or 
laborious  scholarship.  The  underlying  principles  of 
play  structure  are  based  on  common  sense  and  human 
nature.  Any  mind  capable  of  understanding  how  a 
house  is  built  can  grasp  the  fundamentals  of  how  a 
play  is  made. 

Among  English  speaking  people,  the  greatest  ob- 
stacle in  the  way  of  popular  and  widespread  familiarity 
with  the  technique  of  the  play  is  a  certain  lurking 
prejudice.  Being  of  Anglo-Saxon  blood,  we  are  heirs 
and  assigns  to  strange  traditions  about  art.  One  of 
the  most  firmly  intrenched  of  these  traditions  is  that 
study  of  method  tends  to  destroy  enjoyment  of  effect. 


PREFACE  ix 


Consciously  or  subconsciously  we  are  fearful  of  know- 
ing so  much  about  dramatic  technique  that  our  enjoy- 
ment in  the  theater  may  lose  its  spontaneity.  It  is  a 
curious  apprehension.  Reasoning  backward  from  it, 
one  would  expect  to  find  the  English  speaking  audience 
habitually  swept  b}''  whirlwinds  of  enthusiasm.  In 
reality,  we  take  our  enjoyment  of  art  in  the  theater, 
or  elsewhere,  rather  stoically.  Seldom  is  there  any 
illusion  to  be  dispelled  by  familiarity  with  method,  or 
any  other  casualty.  It  is  the  Frenchman,  with  his 
minute  knowledge  of  technical  devices,  who  goes  into 
temperamental  ecstasies  when  he  is  pleased  at  the 
play. 

The  receptivity  and  appreciation  of  the  theater- 
going public  is  a  matter  of  far-reaching  importance. 
In  the  development  of  national  drama,  the  direct  and 
first-hand  resjDonsibility  of  the  audience  has  been 
recognized  at  all  times  and  in  all  lands.  Without  audi- 
ences there  would  be  no  plays.  A  lyrist  may  sing  to 
disburden  his  soul;  a  Pictor  Ignotus  may  paint  for 
endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles;  but  the  dramatist 
writes  plays  for  the  assembled  contemporary  audience. 
The  theatergoing  public  crowds  the  background  of  his 
consciousness  while  he  is  working;  and  it  follows,  as 
the  night  the  day,  that  the  finer  the  appreciation  he 
can  count  on,  the  better  the  quality  of  the  drama  he 
will  turn  out. 

Thus  the  public,  creating  the  only  conditions  under 
which  plays  can  exist,  and  having  power  to  keep  acted 
plays  to  the  level  of  its  own  intelligence  and  taste,  is 
partaker  in  the  drama,  as  in  no  other  of  the  fine  arts. 

In  the  wake  of  the  recent  revival  of  dramatic  litera- 
ture,  there   are  many  indications   that  the  public   is 


PREFACE 


beginning  to  realize  the  delights  and  the  obligations 
of  its  vital  connection  with  the  play  of  its  own  day. 
One  indication  is  that  theater  audiences  are  organiz- 
ing, so  as  to  exert  more  effectual  influence.  The  so- 
called  Drama  Leagues  in  this  country  have  grown  in 
a  few  years  to  vast  proportions. 

Leagues  and  clubs,  however,  are  made  up  of  individ- 
uals, each  one  of  whom  must  do  something  for  himself, 
if  he  is  to  become  a  creative  spectator. 

The  place  to  study  the  drama  is  in  the  theater,  and 
the  way  to  study  it  is  not  to  begin  with  rules  (there 
are  no  rules),  but  to  observe  how  the  truly  dramatic 
play  is  made. 

Observation,  however,  is  always  and  everywhere  a 
rare  accomplishment.  If  the  present  work  is  to  any 
degree  successful  in  opening  the  eyes  and  ears  of 
drama  students  in  the  theater,  and  stimulating  their 
observation  so  that  their  reading  of  plays  in  the  class 
room  or  by  the  fireside  may  go  on  more  prosperously, 
its  purpose  will  be  fulfilled. 

The  illustrations  are  drawn  from  the  drama  of 
recent  years,  and  it  has  been  thought  desirable  to 
comment  extensively  upon  a  few  plays,  rather  than  to 
make  scattering  references  to  many. 


In  preparing  this  volume,  the  author  has  slightly 
revised  various  articles  which  have  appeared  during 
the  last  four  years  in  the  Chicago  Record-Herald  and 
Tribune.  An  article  on  "  Acting  Scenery,"  recently 
published  in  The  Drama,  is  also  included,  as  well  as 
several  lectures  delivered  before  Woman's  Clubs  in  and 
about  Chicago. 


PREFACE  xi 


Grateful  acknowledgment  is  tendered  to  the  editors 
of  the  Record-Herald,  the  Tribune  and  The  Drama 
for  courteous  permission  to  republish  the  articles 
which  first  appeared  in  their  pages. 

Elizabeth  R.  Hunt, 

Evanston,  Illinois. 

October  22,  1912. 


CONTENTS 


Page 
I     Drama  Study 17 

Drama  and  Literature 
Preliminaries  for  Study 
The  Subtler  Dramatic  Qualities 
Seeing  a  Play  Twice 

II     The  Exposition  and  the  Exciting  Force     .     26 
Illustrated  hy  "  The  Servant  in  the  House  " 

An  Adequate  Exposition 
A  Strange  Exciting  Force 

III  The  Rise  or  Growth  of  the  Action       .     .     34 

Illustrated  hy  '■'■El  Grain  Galeoto" 

IV  The  Climax 41 

Illustrated  by  '^'■Disraeli" 

V     The  Fall  and  Close  of  the  Action  ...     52 

Variously  Illustrated 

Climax  Further  Considered 
The  Fall  of  the  Ac-tion 
The  Close  of  the  Play 
The  Foolish  Old  Ending 

VI     Analysis  of  "A  Doll's  House''     ....     60 

To  Illustrate  all  Technical  Points  Previously  Menlloued 

The  "Story  "  of  a  "Doll's  House" 

The  Use  of  the  Material 

Building  the  Play 

The  Subtler  Devices 

Greater  PlcJisurc  in  Playgoing 


xiv  CONTENTS 


Page 
VII     The  Catastrophic  Play 73 

Illustrated  by  Ibsen s  '■'■A  BolVs  House'''' 

The  Old  Form  and  the  New 
The  New  "  Drama  of  Catastrophe  " 
The  Revolt  from  Earlier  Forms 
The  Imitation  of  EarUer  Forms 
The  Spread  of  the  New  Form 
Two  Common  Dangers 

Obscurity 

Weakened  Hold  on  Life 
Cure  for  False  Methods 

VIII     The  Play  of  the  Day 84 

Illustrated  by  "  The  Earth  " 

The  Play  of  the  Day  Illustrated 

The  "  Story  "  of  "  The  Earth  " 

Whatisa"Talky"Play? 

Building  the  Play 

The  Inconclusive  Ending 

The  Unhappy  Ending 

Turning  Toward  the  Future 

IX     High  Comedy  or  Comedy  of  Manners    .     .108 

Illustrated  by  ** Lady  Windermere's  Fan" 

Comedy  Defined 
Comedy  Illustrated 
Good  Dramatic  Material 
Comedic  Use  of  the  Material 
The  Setting 
Building  the  Play 
Comedy  Well  Exemplified 
Mohere  the  Model 
La  Bonne  Comedie 

X     The  Unities  in  the  Modern  Play     .     .     .141 
Illustrated  by  "  The  Servant  in  the  House  " 

The  Human  Interest 
Unity  in  Simplicity 

XI     The  Soliloquy  in  the  Modern  Play       .     .146 

The  Indirect  Vision 
Popular  Discussion 


CONTENTS  XV 


Page 

XII     Realism  in  the  Modern  Play     ....  153 

The  Realist's  Methods 
The  Romanticist's  Methods 
The  Scope  of  ReaUsm 

XIII  What  is  Dramatic  Literature  ?       ...  162 

Illustrated  by  "  The  Admirable  Crichton,"  and 
"  What  Every  Woman  Knows" 

XIV  The  Purpose  Play  and  Its  Limitations   .  167 

The  Imitative  QuaUty  in  Art 
Zestful  Interest  in  Art 
Art  is  not  Reformatory 
The  Moral  Implication  of  Art 

XV     The  Pieced-out  Play 173 

Handling  Dramatic  Material 
Brilliant  Stage  Conversation 
Unsuccessful  Imitation  of  Ibsen 

:XVI     The  Static  Play 180 

What  is  a  Dramatic  Incident  ? 
The  Tedium  of  Life 

XVII     Acting  Scenery 188 

How  it  Helps  the  Play  to  Tell  Its  Story 

The  New  Scenery 

The  Old  Scenery 

Difficult  Transition  from  Old  to  New 

What  is  "  Acting  Scenery  "  ? 

Corrective  Influence  of  New  Stage  Craft 

XVIII     British  English  and  American  English  .  199 

On  and  Off  the  Stage 

The  Actor's  Responsibility 
British  Accent 

XIX     The  Play  for  Children 207 

Illustrated  by  "Chantecler"  and  "  The  Piper" 


THE  PLAY  OF  THE  DAY 


DRAMA    STUDY 

"  There  is  substantial  agreement  among  enlightened  leaders  of  public 
opinion  in  all  civilized  countries,  that  great  drama,  when  fitly  repre- 
sented in  the  theater,  offers  the  rank  and  file  of  a  nation  recreation 
which  brings  with  it  moral,  intellectual  and  spiritual  advantage." 

Sidney  Lee. 

THE  art  of  the  playwright,  old  or  new,  past  or 
present,  should  be  studied  in  the  same  way  and 
for  the  same  reason  as  the  art  of  the  poet,  the 
musician,  the  painter  or  the  sculptor.  The  object  and 
end  of  such  study  is  increased  enjoyment  of  the  art 
—  richer,  fuller,  more  abundant  and  more  spontaneous 
delight  —  nothing  more  nor  less  than  that.  Only  the 
word  "enjoyment,"  in  its  length,  breadth  and  depth, 
connotes  much  that  is  significant. 

Enjoyment  of  art  at  its  best  is  not  a  merely  passive 
matter,  but  active,  taking  toll  of  every  faculty. 

The  term  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  recreation  — 
re-creation.  That  we  all  need.  Moreover,  we  all  know 
from  occasional  experience  what  it  is  to  be  re-created, 
that  is,  stimulated  and  inspired,  by  great  drama,  so 
that  next  day  we  return  to  our  humble  round  and  daily 
task  with  a  sense  of  refreshment  which  makes  every- 
thing a  little  lighter  and  easier  than  it  was  the  day 
before  —  lighter    and    easier,   because    it    is    a   joy   to 


18  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

think  that  there  can  be  such  a  beautiful  thing  in  all 
the  world  as  a  great  play  greatly  acted. 

The  best  service  that  art  can  render  us  is  to  call 
forth  our  appreciation,  arouse  our  enthusiasm,  and 
thus  so  restore  us  as  to  get  us  into  better  trim  for 
our  work  in  the  world. 

The  American  people  has  arrived  at  a  stage  of 
growth  and  development  where  it  is  in  especial  need  of 
recreation.  To  illustrate :  Nations  are  like  individuals. 
This  is  a  mere  platitude.  Now  in  the  life  of  a  young 
man  who  is  firm  on  his  own  feet  and  making  his  unaided 
way  in  the  world,  there  is  apt  to  come  a  time  when  he  has 
a  little  leisure,  a  little  money,  and  a  little  strength  that 
is  not  needed  in  the  struggle  for  food  and  shelter  and 
clothing.  Then  arises  the  question,  what  is  he  to  do? 
At  first  thought  the  answer  seems  simple  and  easy.  He 
has  worked  tremendously,  has  kept  himself  alive  and 
a  little  more,  and  working  is  harder  than  playing. 
Why  then  should  it  be  a  problem  to  him  how  to  use 
his  first  spare  money  and  time  and  strength?  But 
anybody  who  knows  human  nature  knows  that  it  is, 
on  the  contrary,  a  difficult  stage  in  a  young  man's 
life  —  a  crisis  when,  if  he  has  a  clearly  defined  taste 
or  distinct  liking  for  anything  in  the  way  of  art  of 
any  kind,  he  may  count  that  one  of  his  most  valuable 
assets. 

The  application  is  plain.  As  a  people  we  are  grow- 
ing rich,  so  that  we  have  some  time  and  means  to  spare 
—  more  at  least  than  in  the  pioneer  days.  Now  is 
the  time  when  delight  in  art  may  be  of  real  use  and 
serve  high  purposes. 

Best  of  all,  as  a  people  we  are  abundantly  tempera- 
mental. The  American  temperament,  in  its  feeling  for 
art,  is  the  best  in  the  world  —  a  kind  of  cross  between 


DRAMA    STUDY  19 


tlie  British  and  the  French,  and  on  the  whole  better 
than  either. 

It  is  because  we  have  this  temperament,  and  because 
we  are  now  at  that  critical  stage  where  art,  bringing 
enthusiasm  and  inspiration  and  refreshment,  can  be 
of  practical  value,  that  the  matter  of  drama  study  and 
the  work  of  all  drama  leagues  and  clubs  is  of  such  timely 
interest.  The  theater  has  only  just  begun  to  do  what 
it  can  do  for  us  as  a  people.  The  relation  between 
drama  and  life  is  not  superficial,  but  in  every  way  social, 
foundational  and  fundamental. 

Dramatic  art,  for  all  its  magic,  is  not  the  subtlest 
of  the  fine  arts.  Music,  for  example,  is  always  con- 
sidered subtler.  Dramatic  effects  are  broad  and  in- 
sistent. Nor  need  we  claim  that  dramatic  art  is  the 
greatest  of  all.  It  would  be  idle  to  speculate  as  to 
which  is  supreme.  But  drama  is  the  most  complex 
and  universal  of  the  arts.  It  includes  all  the  others  — 
literature,  the  plastic  arts,  and  even  music;  and  it  de- 
mands more  of  its  devotees  than  any  other  art  —  more 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  human  nature,  more 
feeling  for  craftsmanship  in  general,  as  well  as  for 
dramatic  craftsmanship  in  particular. 

The  best  brief  definition  of  a  play  is  that  it  is  a 
comment  on  life,  as  the  audience  knows  life,  in  terms 
of  the  actor,  the  stage,  scenery,  costuming,  and  number- 
less aids  and  accessories.  The  definition  is  more  fre- 
quently put  in  this  way:  not  that  the  play  is  a  com- 
ment on  life,  which  we  are  supposed  to  know  enough 
about  life  to  understand  and  recognize  the  truth  of, 
but  that  it  is  a  means  of  enlarging  our  experience  and 
directly  teaching  us  somotliiiig  wt-  do  not  know.  This 
is  a  dangerous  and  pathetic  fallacy.  If  the  drama 
directly  enlarged  the  experience,  t^    :.  surely  we  ought 


20  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

to  send  young  people  in  flocks  to  the  theater.  Cer- 
tainly they  need  experience.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
young  people  go  to  the  theater  rather  too  much,  and 
their  elders  not  enough.  Witness  Granville  Barker, 
who  says : 

"  The  English  Theater,  for  heaven  knows  how  many 
years,  has  diligently  driven  out  everybody  over  the 
age  of  twenty-five — I  speak  at  any  rate  mentally,  for 
there  are  plenty  of  people  with  gray  hairs  who  will 
never  be  more  than  twenty-five.  And  you  have  got  to 
get  what  you  can  call,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word, 
an  intelligent  and  amusing  entertainment  before  you 
can  get  these  people  back." 

The  play  should  be  an  abiding  delight,  greater  with 
every  year  that  brings  added  insight  into  character  and 
human  nature  and  the  world  in  which  we  live.  It  is 
something  to  grow  up  to.  It  interprets  our  hard  won 
knowledge  of  life  and  makes  comments  upon  it,  instead 
of  furnishing  a  kind  of  facile  experience;  or,  to  turn 
it  the  other  way,  the  more  we  know  about  life,  the 
greater  our  delight  in  the  observations  upon  life  that 
are  made  in  the  theater,  and  the  more  restoration  and 
recreation  we  get  out  of  them. 

Drama  and  Literature 

Plays  are  made  or  built,  rather  than  written.  We 
say  this  again  and  again,  but  we  are  reluctant  to 
admit  it,  because  it  sounds  mechanical.  It  is  true, 
however,  even  of  plays  that  have  literary  quality  of 
the  finest.  Dramatic  literature!  The  term  is  charged 
with  meaning;  and  few  indeed  are  the  students  or 
theatergoers  who  get  and  hold  the  meaning. 

People    in    gt.i    ^1    seem    to    be    divided    into    two 


dra:\ia  study  21 

classes,  not  to  say  hostile  camps,  as  regards  their 
attitude  toward  the  play. 

First,  there  are  the  non-theatergoers,  who  regard 
the  drama  as  literature  and  read  it  attentively  apart 
from  the  theater,  influenced  a  little  perhaps,  at  present, 
by  the  matter  of  vogue.  Some  of  these  fireside  readers 
have  apparently  forgotten  even  their  old  friend,  the 
novel,  to  say  nothing  of  poetry  the  divine,  and  the 
essay,  which  in  its  modern  form  is  becoming  so  at- 
tractive. Certainly  they  have  lost  sight  of  the  fact 
that  drama,  as  literature  alone,  is  rather  a  tiresome 
and  clumsy  mode  of  expression,  to  be  put  up  with  for 
one  purpose  only  —  to  help  us  become  more  ideal  spec- 
tators in  the  theater. 

Then  there  are  the  inveterate  theatergoers,  casual 
and  undiscriminating,  who  regard  the  play  as  some- 
thing to  be  seen  and  heard,  and  not  to  be  read  at 
all.  To  them  the  play  has  no  literary  quality,  but 
is  merely  a  show.  Sometimes  they  pronounce  it  a 
good  show,  and  sometimes  a  poor  one,  but  further 
than  that  they  make  no  distinction.  They  become  less 
and  less  critical  in  matters  of  good  sense  and  good 
taste,  they  grow  sated,  their  perceptions  become  dulled, 
and  they  demand  more  and  more  sensation.  Hence 
they  are  the  greatest  possible  temptation  to  managers 
and  producers,  who  realize  that  in  order  to  hold 
the  jaded  interest  of  such  theatergoers,  they  must  do 
worse  and  worse  and  more  and  more  of  it  all  the 
time. 

The  class  of  people  who  regard  the  play  in  the  way 
in  which  it  should  be  regarded,  as  dramatic  literature, 
is  small  indeed. 

A  great  play  must  be  drama  (which  means  nothing 
more  than  action)   on  the  one  hand,  and  literature  on 


22  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

the  other  hand;  but  it  is  an  affair  of  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty to  bring  these  two  together.  For  Hterature  has 
a  tendency  to  escape  or  rise  above  or  hold  itself  aloof 
from  drama  (action),  and  drama  has  a  tendency  to 
break  loose  in  its  own  tremendous  and  untamable  way 
from  literature.  Drama  and  literature  are  antagonistic, 
antipathetic,  fornenst  each  other,  as  the  Irish  would  say. 
And  yet  no  great  play  was  ever  made  until  drama  and 
literature  were  brought  into  some  kind  of  harmony. 
Nor  is  any  theatergoer  an  ideal  spectator  until  he  can 
set  drama  in  one  eye  and  literature  in  the  other,  and 
look  on  both  impartially. 

True,  this  is  not  always  possible.  We  are  sometimes 
obliged  to  examine  and  discuss  plays  without  the  help 
of  stage  interpretation,  and  hence  often  wander  far 
afield  in  our  speculations  as  to  craftsmanship,  meaning 
and  intent. 

Then  we  see  many  plays  in  the  theater  that  are  not 
obtainable  in  print  or  manuscript,  and  so  cannot  be 
weighed  deliberately,  apart  from  the  frequent  under- 
interpretation  or  over-interpretation  or  misinterpreta- 
tion to  which  they  are  subjected  in  the  theater. 

Thus  we  often  work  at  cross  purposes  in  our  study 
of  the  drama.  But  to  repeat:  Dramatic  literature  is 
of  a  peculiar  and  restricted  and  special  kind.  And  the 
surest  way  to  nail  ourselves  down  to  realization  of  its 
distinctive  quality  is  to  see  it  on  the  stage.  The  glow 
of  the  footlights  is  corrective  and  sanative,  illuminating 
our  minds  when  we  strive  to  compass  a  play,  and  keep- 
ing us  on  the  right  track  when  we  begin  to  interpret 
and   follow  the  intellectual  drift. 

The  ideal  way  to  study  a  play  is  to  see  a  perform- 
ance of  it  before  reading  or  analyzing.  Such  approach 
to  the  work  is  only  reasonable  deference  to  the  author. 


DRAMA    STUDY  23 

If  we  imagine  ourselves  for  a  moment  in  the  trying 
situation  of  a  playwright,  we  realize  why  it  is  that  in 
almost  every  case  he  prefers  to  have  the  public  see 
before  reading.  The  more  dramatic  a  play  is  —  the 
better  it  is  as  a  play  —  the  more  uncertainty  just  what 
is  likely  to  come  out  on  the  stage  when  the  player  folk 
begin  to  act  and  react  upon  one  another  and  upon  the 
situations.  Even  the  author  is  sometimes  surprised 
at  the  revelations. 

If  we  read  a  play  first,  we  are  apt  to  get  wrong 
notions,  conceiving  the  work  as  better  than  it  is,  or 
worse  than  it  is,  or  more  literary  than  it  is,  or  (what 
is  worse  than  all)  as  having  more  meaning  than  the 
author  ever  dreamed  of  putting  into  it. 

Having  seen  a  play  fairly  well  presented,  we  can 
then  read  and  analyze  it  to  almost  any  extent  with- 
out getting  befogged  into  regarding  it  as  literature 
merely,  or  morals  merely,  or  anything  but  drama  chiefly 
and  whole-heartedly. 

Preliminaries  for  Study 

The  best  preliminary  for  drama  study  is  to  read  with 
pencil  and  notebook  in  hand,  extracting  the  story  of 
the  play,  and  setting  down  all  events  in  chronological 
order.  This  is  important,  since  the  only  way  to  observe 
how  events  have  been  handled,  manipulated,  trans- 
formed, in  a  word,  dramatized,  is  to  make  sure  what 
they  were  and  in  what  order  they  came  before  the 
author  began  to  handle  them. 

Then,  having  set  fortli  tlio  events  of  the  play  in 
story  form,  notice  at  what  point  the  first  curtain  rises, 
and  determine,  if  possible,  why  a  beginning  was  made 
precisely  there,  instead  of  earlier  or  later. 


24  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Next  consider  the  matter  of  building  —  the  five  parts 
which  centuries  ago  estabhshed  the  custom  of  dividing 
the  play  into  five  acts.  Today,  although  plays  are 
more  apt  to  have  four  acts  or  only  three,  they  are  built 
on  the  old  lines.  The  five  structural  parts  are  still 
discernible,  even  when  they  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  division  into  acts. 

These  parts  are: 

First,  the  exposition  or  introduction. 

Second,  the  rise,  or  growth,  or  crescendo,  or  develop- 
ment of  the  action. 

Third,  the  climax,  or  top  of  the  ladder,  or  apex  of 
the  pyramid,  or  sharpest  turning  point,  or  knot  of  the 
plot. 

Fourth,  the  fall  or  decline,  or  diminuendo  of  the 
action. 

Fifth,  the  close,  or  denouement,  or  catastrophe,  or 
disentangling  of  the  lines  of  the  plot  and  readjustment 
of  the  characters. 


The  Subtler  Dramatic  Qualities 

Any  fair  beginning  in  the  study  of  play  structure 
must  be  made  with  some  consideration  for  the  mere 
framework.  Good  plays,  like  all  vital  and  creative 
works  of  art,  grow  and  develop  by  their  own  laws. 
But  the  study  of  organic  parts  cannot  be  carried  far 
without  at  the  same  time  taking  into  account  many 
subtle  qualities  not  easily  explained  or  illustrated. 
Among  these  are :  the  shading  and  grading  of  effects ; 
adroitness  in  making  transitions ;  cumulative  pressure 
toward  the  end;  dramatic  irony;  direction  and  indi- 
rection In  conveying  information ;  the  choice  between 
the  fixed  character  and  the  developing  or  deteriorating 


DRA]\IA    STUDY  25 

character;  and  in  general,  everytliing  pertaining  to 
skill  in  overcoming  difficulties,  and  economy  in  the  use 
of  materials  and  means. 


Seeing  a  Play  Twice 

Finally:  It  is  better  to  see  one  play  twice  than  to 
see  two  plays  of  equal  value,  each  of  them  once. 

In  the  study  of  play  structure,  the  following  is 
suggested : 

Select  out  of  any  season  five  plays  which  are  in 
print  and  which  are  having  fairly  good  representation 
on  the  stage.  Then,  in  the  case  of  each  play,  first  see 
the  stage  performance ;  then  read  and  analyze  the 
play ;  then  see  it  again  on  the  stage ;  then  reread  it 
for  final  effect.  Any  one  who  does  this  for  a  season 
or  two  will  be  far  on  the  way  toward  that  general,  non- 
professional understanding  of  play  structure  which  he 
must  have  if  he  is  to  be  a  creative  listener  and  spec- 
tator in  the  theater. 

And  the  way  is  constantly  attractive. 

Not  long  ago,  a  strong  advocate  of  the  organized 
audience  in  the  theater,  who  believed  in  drama  study 
as  a  necessary  preliminary,  passed  the  very  sensible 
remark  that  it  is  not  difficult  to  encourage  intelligent 
interest  in  good  plays,  because  the  study  and  discus- 
sion of  everything  pertaining  to  drama  is  always  inter- 
esting and  popular. 

Which  is  merely  another  and  more  specific  way  of 
putting  what  Henry  James  said  many  years  ago : 

"  The  successful  application  of  any  art  is  a  delight- 
ful spectacle." 


II 

THE    EXPOSITION    AND    THE    EXCITING 

FORCE 

Illustrated  hy  "  The  Servant  in  the  House  " 
By  Chables  Rann  Kennedy 

IN  modern  dramatic  art,  the  introduction  or  expo- 
sition of  the  action,  incorporated  as  it  is  in  the 
play  and  forming  part  of  the  first  act,  has  become 
a  most  interesting  study.     Its  function  obviously  is  to 
form  a  link  between  outside  events  and  those  inclosed 
and  set  apart  in  the  play. 

It  seems  a  simple  matter  merely  to  give  the  audience 
information  enough  to  make  the  onset  of  the  action  in- 
telligible; but  to  present  the  facts  dramatically  and 
economically  is  not  so  easy.  It  taxes  the  ingenuity  of 
the  dramatist  to  the  uttermost.  Fortunately,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  play  he  has  himself  and  his  material 
in  hand,  and  can  do  as  he  pleases.  The  action  has  not 
yet  gained  the  impetus  that  sweeps  everything  before  it. 
Three  purposes  the  exposition  must  always  serve: 
It  must  look  backward,  clearing  away  the  mists  that 
hang  over  the  creation  of  the  little  world  on  the  stage; 
it  must  look  forward,  especially  as  the  introduction  be- 
gins to  merge  into  the  growth  of  the  action,  so  as  to 
grapple  this  part  firmly  to  the  rest  of  the  play  and 
make  it  organic ;   and  then  it  must  be  so  interesting  as 


EXPOSITION    AND    EXCITING    FORCE     27 

to  beguile  and  befool  the  audience  into  thinking  that 
the  action  has  begun,  when  it  is  merely  getting  ready 
to  begin.  At  the  opening  every  moment  is  precious.  It 
is  far  easier  to  keep  the  attention  of  the  audience  from 
the  first  than  to  recover  it  after  it  has  been  lost. 

In  present-day  plays,  the  looking  backward  is  often 
done  by  the  gossiping  servant,  who,  on  the  rising  of 
the  curtain,  is  discovered  dusting  the  furniture  and 
talking  about  the  family  affairs  —  as  in  Sardou's 
"  Divor9ons."  The  stage  parlor  maid,  with  her  ineffi- 
cient feather  duster,  is  a  frequent  apparition.  The  re- 
turned traveller,  asking  for  news,  is  also  familiar  to 
the  theatergoer  —  as  in  Jones'  "  Whitewashing  Julia." 
Then  there  are  the  two  old  friends  who  fall  into  a 
don't-you-remember  mood  and  recite  their  reminiscences 
at  the  more  or  less  impatient  audience  —  as  in  "  Hedda 
Gabler."  Sometimes  a  hotel  proprietor  describes  his 
guests  to  a  newcomer  —  as  in  "  The  Man  From  Home." 
Occasionally  a  newspaper  reporter  is  employed  to  draw 
out  useful  information  in  an  interview  —  as  in  Pinero's 
"  His  House  in  Order."  At  this  point  in  a  play  a 
great  deal  of  information  flies  about  that  is  more  valu- 
able to  the  audience  than  anyone  can  suppose  it  to  bo 
to  the  characters  in  the  play;  but  we  put  up  with  the 
transparent  illusions,  because  we  know  that  there  is  one 
thing  in  a  play  worse  than  artificiality,  and  that  is 
obscurity. 

The  looking  forward  is  usually  accomplished  by 
touches  of  description  which  make  the  audience  curious, 
so  that  the  chief  characters  may  have  good  "  enters  " 
when  they  appear  on  the  stage.  Hints  of  what  is  about 
to  happen  are  continually  thrown  out,  and  important 
arrivals  are  announced  with  great  commotion.  The 
audience  must  at  all  costs  be  made  anticipatory. 


28  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

By  way  of  making  sure  that  the  attention  does  not 
for  a  moment  flag,  a  httle  fictitious  excitement  is  often 
created  that  comes  to  nothing  at  all  so  far  as  the  real 
action  is  concerned.  A  ball  may  be  in  progress  —  in 
the  wings,  of  course.  A  dinner  party  may  have  just 
broken  up.  A  dispute  may  be  going  on  that  threatens 
to  become  a  quarrel. 

Sometimes,  at  the  very  outset,  a  speech  is  uttered  or 
an  incident  happens  that  is  inevitably  recalled  at  the 
far  close  of  the  play,  thus  creating  an  effect  of  com- 
pleteness —  a  return  of  the  action  upon  itself.  This 
helps  to  deepen  the  central  dramatic  impression. 

Most  artistic  of  all  is  the  employment  of  some  device 
to  set  the  tone  of  the  piece  and  put  the  audience  at 
once  into  the  right  mood,  serious,  hilarious,  meditative, 
apprehensive  or  poetic,  as  the  case  may  be.  It  is  the 
highest  art  to  do  this  artlessly. 


An  Adequate  Exposition 

"  The  Servant  in  the  House  "  makes  an  adequate  ex- 
position, so  that  the  audience  is  not  puzzled  and  left 
in  the  dark,  nor  is  its  attention  overtaxed,  as  often  is 
the  case  in  the  too  ingenious  modern  play.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  note  how,  here  as  elsewhere  in  this  play,  the 
commonest  of  means  are  adapted  to  the  most  uncommon 
ends. 

The  curtain  rises  upon  two  servants,  one  of  whom 
is  new  to  the  place.  Nothing  is  more  ordinary  than 
that.  For  the  first  few  speeches,  Manson  keeps  his 
back  to  the  audience,  so  that  when  he  turns  he  may 
achieve  something  like  an  entrance.  But  even  before  he 
faces  about,  the  ke3mote  is  struck  with  no  uncertain 
sound.     The  page  boy  is  sure  that  he  has  seen  this  new 


EXPOSITION    AND    EXCITING    FORCE     29 

butler  somewlicre  before  —  thinks  perhaps  it 's  the  re- 
incarnation the  Daily  Mail  has  been  writing  about. 
What  could  be  more  admirable  than  this  suggestion  of 
the  mystical  atmosphere  that  is  to  enwrap  the  whole 
play? 

The  scene  between  the  servants  gives  the  exposition 
a  backward  look  which  is  prolonged  in  the  colloquy 
between  Mary  (who  is  a  variation  upon  the  familiar 
ingenue  of  so  many  modern  plays)  and  the  new  butler. 
This  conversation  between  the  young  girl  and  the  new- 
comer finally  culminates  in  the  first  dramatic  revelation 
of  the  piece  —  Mary's  recognition  of  her  long-lost 
uncle,  the  Bishop  of  India,  in  the  person  of  the  servant 
Manson.  Thus  the  audience  is  fully  prepared  for  the 
fine  irony  of  many  subsequent  speeches. 

By  way  of  looking  backward  again,  the  boy  throws 
out  an  intimation  that  his  master  has  not  always  been 
so  high  in  the  world.  At  this  moment  the  vicar  comes 
in,  and  to  give  matters  a  forward  movement,  remarks 
that  he  is  expecting  a  visitor.  Then  he  starts  in  sur- 
prise at  the  new  butler,  and  is  sure  that  he  has  seen 
him  somewhere  before.  By  the  time  it  is  made  clear 
that  the  expected  guest  is  the  vicar's  brother,  the  Bishop 
of  India,  and  incidentally,  that  Mary  is  the  daughter  of 
another  brother,  the  audience  is  pretty  well  prepared 
for  the  opening  of  the  action. 

As  is  frequently  the  case,  however,  the  exposition  over- 
laps the  scene  that  introduces  the  exciting  force.  The 
audience  has  yet  to  learn  that  the  vicar's  wife's  brother, 
the  Bishop  of  Lancashire,  is  also  expected  to  luncheon. 
This  information  is  held  back  till  after  Mary  and  Man- 
son  have  had  their  confidential  talk,  in  the  course  of 
which  tlie  child  describes  the  noisome  condition  of  that 
drain  which  is  impairing  tlie  usefulness  at  once  of  the 


30  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

pulpit  and  the  vicar's  study,  and  wliich,  since  it  has 
much  to  do  with  assembling  the  characters  and  giving 
the  action  a  vigorous  forward  impulse,  may  be  consid- 
ered the  strange,  exciting  force  of  the  play. 

All  this  time  there  is  a  slight  bustle  of  preparation 
for  that  luncheon  which,  as  the  vicar's  wife  puts  it, 
is  to  be  quite  a  church  congress,  two  bishops  being 
expected.  The  fact  that  the  play  rounds  itself  to  a 
conclusion  just  before  luncheon  time  does  not  interfere 
with  the  enlivening  effect  of  the  preparations  upon  the 
expositional  part  of  the  action. 

The  speech  at  the  beginning  that  is  destined  to  be 
recalled  at  the  end  is  Manson's  "  Then  —  Brother !  "  as 
he  proffers  his  hand  to  be  taken  by  the  surprised  vicar. 
The  last  speech  of  the  play  is  in  reply  to  the  vicar's 
question:  "In  God's  name,  who  are  you?"  Manson's 
answer  is,  "  In  God's  name  —  your  brother."  Then 
the  vicar  clasps  his  hand  as  before,  but  this  time  sinks 
to  his  knees. 

Thus  the  wheel  turns  full  circle,  and  the  central  idea 
of  brotherhood  is  firmly  emphasized. 


The  Exciting  Force 

It  is  a  temptation  to  linger  over  the  art  of  making 
the  exposition,  because  what  it  chiefly  employs  is  in- 
genuity; and  that  is  comparatively  easy  to  explain 
and  to  understand.  But  when  the  action  sets  in,  and 
events  begin  to  happen  inevitably,  and  the  stress  and 
strain  begin  to  be  felt,  then  even  those  who  are  fondest 
of  taking  the  craftsman's  view  of  a  play  are  apt  to  be 
daunted,  and  to  own  themselves  inadequate  to  do  more 
than  observe  and  wonder. 

The  exposition,  however,  must  always  be  short  and 


EXPOSITION    AND    EXCITING    FORCE     31 

shortened,  and  there  is  no  avoiding  the  plunge  into 
the  action. 

Two  points  are  always  discoverable  in  a  good  play, 
no  matter  what  other  technicalities  are  slighted  or  dis- 
pensed with  altogether.  There  must  somewhere  emerge 
from  the  complications  an  exciting  force  to  set  the 
action  in  motion,  and  a  climactic  point  or  scene  for 
the  culmination  of  the  plot. 

The  exciting  or  disturbing  force  is  anything  that 
operates  to  change  the  condition  of  aifairs  from  bal- 
ance or  repose  to  that  action  or  struggle  which  makes 
the  play.  In  a  thoroughly  unified  plot  the  effect  of 
the  disturbing  force  is  plainly  to  be  seen  upon  each  of 
the  principal  characters  in  turn,  and  upon  all  the  events 
as  they  succeed  one  another  in  the  rise  or  growth  of  the 
action.  The  most  elaborate  dramatic  mechanism  may 
thus  be  set  in  motion  by  one  and  the  same  impulse  or 
series  of  impulses. 

In  "  The  Servant  in  the  House  "  the  condition  of 
the  drain  beneath  the  church  and  the  vicar's  study 
may  be  considered  the  starting  point  of  the  action, 
although  that  hardly  brings  the  disturbing  force  within 
the  narrow  time  limit  of  the  play.  The  sequence  of 
events  is  something  like  this : 

1.  The  old  church  has  fallen  into  a  terrible  state 
of  decay. 

2.  The  vicar  starts  a  restoration  fund  and  tries 
everything  —  all  his  rich  friends,  bazaars,  jumble  sales, 
special  intercessions  —  everything! 

3.  The  vicar's  appeal  to  the  public  brings  a  letter 
from  the  Bishop  of  India,  who  promises  to  restore  the 
church  if  anyone  will  help  him. 

4.  The  proviso  "  if  anyone  will  help  me  "  inspires 
the  vicar's  wife  to  summon  her  brother,  the  rich  Bishop 


82  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


of  Lancashire,  who,  though  he  has  always  ignored  the 
vicar,  is  now  ambitious  to  be  associated  with  the  far- 
famed  Bishop  of  India. 

5.  The  vicar,  meantime,  has  received  another  unex- 
pected letter,  this  one  from  his  reprobate  brother 
Robert,  who,  after  a  silence  of  fifteen  years,  announces 
himself  for  a  visit.  The  vicar  telegraphs  that  he 
cannot  entertain  him  (Robert),  because  the  drains  are 
up  in  the  study.  Robert  inclines  to  believe  it  all  a 
lie,  but,  since  drains  are  in  his  line,  comes  to  have  a 
look  at  the  vicarage  in  case  there  is  really  anything 


wrong. 


So  the  bad  drainage  (which  in  its  dramatic  quality 
has,  it  must  be  admitted,  an  amusing  side)  not  only 
starts  up  the  action  vigorously  all  through  the  play, 
but  assembles  the  characters,  by  bringing  upon  the 
scene  first  Manson,  then  Robert  and  finally  the  Bishop 
of  Lancashire. 

It  may  be  observed  in  passing  that  the  outcome  of 
the  telegram  to  Robert  is  a  perfect  illustration  of  that 
reversal  or  recoil  of  action  which  has  been  a  successful 
dramatic  device  ever  since  there  were  plays  in  the  world. 
A  time-honored  means  by  which  the  action  may  be  forced 
to  rise  toward  a  climax  or  swiftly  fall  to  a  catastrophe 
is  to  make  a  given  expedient  not  only  useless  to  bring 
about  the  result  intended,  but  productive  of  exactly  the 
opposite  effect,  thus  recoiling  upon  itself.  The  vicar's 
excuse  about  the  drains  not  only  fails  to  stand  off  the 
undesirable  brother,  but  serves  to  bring  him  speedily  to 
the  vicarage ;   a  typical  case  of  dramatic  reversal. 

It  is  perhaps  wide  of  the  mark  to  add  that  the  style 
of  plumbing  at  the  vicarage  is  unfamiliar  and  somewhat 
startling.  Any  method  of  repair  that  would  require 
the  sewer  pipes  to  be  dragged  out  and  displayed  upon 


EXPOSITION    AND    EXCITING   FORCE     33 

the  study  carpet  —  however,  it  is  probably  a  highly 
dramatic,  not  to  say  romantic,  kind  of  plumbing,  and 
that  is  doubtless  better  for  stage  pui-poses  than  any- 
tliing  more  sanitary  and  convenient. 


Ill 

THE    RISE    OR    GROWTH    OF    THE    ACTION 

lllibstrated  hy  "  El  Gran  GaUoto  " 
By  Jose  Echegakat 

BEFORE  the  action  begins  to  develop,  the  expo- 
sition is  partly  or  entirely  finished,  the  chief 
characters  have  made  their  "  enters  "  upon  the 
stage,  and  the  exciting  force  has  been  exerted.  The 
situation  at  this  point  may  be  summed  up  by  saying 
"  Something  must  be  done  about  it !  "  The  decks  are 
cleared  for  action,  and  the  excitement  begins  to  mount. 
This  sounds  interesting;  but  no  organic  part  of  a 
play  is  more  difficult  to  handle  from  the  craftsman's 
standpoint  than  that  which  extends  from  the  exciting 
force  to  the  climactic  point  or  scene.  Doubtless  the 
fact  that  this  is,  as  far  as  the  dramatists  have  deposed 
and  testified,  the  hardest  part  to  write,  may  account 
for  the  difficulties  which  oppose  themselves  to  even  the 
most  patient  analysis.  "  The  dreadful  second  act ! " 
cries  the  hapless  wight  who  has  a  play  on  his  mind, 
"  If  only  I  can  manage  that  I  shall  be  all  right." 

After  William  Archer's  recent  visit  to  this  country 
he  wrote :  "  I  am  credibly  assured  that  at  some  uni- 
versities the  form  of  morning  greeting  among  under- 
graduates is  no  longer  'How  are  you.?'  but  'How  is 
your  second  act  getting  on.? '    I  remarked  that  interest 


RISE   OR   GROWTH   OF   THE   ACTION    35 

miglit  better  be  centered  on  the  welfare  of  the  last  act, 
and  was  told  that  the  undergraduate  play  seldom  got 
so  far  as  that." 

The  exposition  is  made;  then  the  action  grows.  Vast 
is  the  difference  between  construction  and  development, 
and  fortunate  the  dramatist  or  the  novelist  whose  play 
or  novel,  having  been  well  born  and  well  brought  up, 
throws  off  restraint  and  gets  away  from  him  altogether. 
The  good  effect  of  such  constructive  independence  upon 
the  novel  or  the  play  itself  we  realize  by  contrast  when 
we  are  bored  to  extinction  by  drama  or  fiction  (and 
there  is  plenty  of  both)  in  which  to  the  dreary  end 
every  character  is  pushed  and  pulled  and  dragged  about 
by  the  officious  author,  and  every  incident  is  a  contrap- 
tion and  a  contrivance. 

We  have  arrived,  then,  at  one  of  the  difficulties  met 
by  the  critic  in  observing  this  part  of  a  play  —  namely, 
that  here  the  action  has  begun  to  grow  by  natural  laws 
based  deep  in  human  nature,  so  that  even  the  dramatist 
himself  is  a  trifle  extraneous  to  his  own  creation.  How 
fearfully  he  must  watch  the  work  of  his  own  hands 
as  it  beffins  to  move  of  itself!  How  he  must  dread  to 
give  the  despoiling  touch  or  make  the  awkward  inter- 
position !  In  fact,  what  he  does,  if  he  is  honestly  artistic, 
is  mostly  in  the  way  of  grading  the  movement,  conserv- 
ing the  effect,  and  practicing  the  devices  of  retardation 
and  delay,  so  that  the  climax  may  not  be  too  quickly 
reached;  for  often  the  mere  story  from  exposition  to 
climax  can  be  told  in  a  few  sentences. 

To  let  the  action  go  forward  and  yet  hold  it  back, 
to  spur  it  on  and  yet  rein  it  in  so  that  it  may  keep 
a  natural  pace  —  this  it  is,  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  making  of  a  play,  that  stimulates  the  dramatic 
artist  to  his  very  highest  endeavor. 


36  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

In  one  sense  it  is  more  descriptive  to  say  that  the 
action  repeatedly  rises  and  falls  than  that  it  grows,  be- 
cause the  advance  is  hardly  ever  steady.  A  zigzag  line 
would  represent  the  way  in  which  the  excitement  now 
mounts  and  then  is  quieted,  mounts  still  higher  and  is 
again  restrained,  till  we  have  a  series  of  situations  and 
crises.  All  the  time,  too,  there  must  be  a  cautious  pre- 
vision of  the  later  scenes  in  the  play,  in  which  it  is  always 
difficult  to  maintain  the  suspense.  After  the  climax 
there  must  be  a  drawing  together  of  all  the  loose  threads 
in  the  earlier  part  of  the  play,  else  there  will  be  at  the 
close  that  impression  of  unfinished  lines  of  action  which 
distracts  and  antagonizes  an  audience,  even  though  few 
people  in  the  house  may  realize  what  is  the  matter. 

It  is  perhaps  overstatement  to  say  that  the  growth 
of  the  action  is  more  difficult  to  manage  than  the  climax. 
It  is,  however,  less  inevitable;  and  then,  in  the  modern 
play,  which  has  forsworn  the  soliloquy  and  the  tirade, 
the  carrying  power  of  the  climax  must  depend  very 
much  upon  the  strength  of  the  dramatic  pressure  back 
of  it.  The  denouement,  too,  which  tries  the  very  soul 
of  the  artist,  depends  closely  upon  the  earlier  scenes.  It 
is  far  easier  to  untie  a  neatly  made  knot  than  to  loosen 
and  straighten  out  a  wild  tangle. 

Then  there  is  the  mode  of  presentation  —  the  direc- 
tion or  indirection  with  which  the  audience  is  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  events  that  form  the  plot.  This  is 
a  more  intricate  problem  here  than  later  in  the  play. 
The  action  cannot  all  take  place  on  the  stage.  What 
parts  then  shall  be  acted  before  the  audience,  what  parts 
shall  be  supposed  to  take  place  out  of  sight  and  then 
be  related  on  the  stage  by  some  character,  and  what 
parts  is  it  safe  to  let  the  audience  guess  at  or  infer? 
This,  withal,  precipitates  the  subtle  question  of  values ; 


RISE   OR   GROWTH   OF   THE   ACTION    37 

because  what  the  audience  sees  will  necessarily  have  a 
higher  dramatic  value  than  what  it  hears  or  overhears 
at  second  hand.  And  the  preservation  of  the  right 
scale  of  values  is  complicated  today  as  never  before 
by  the  ambition  to  limit  the  number  of  characters,  and 
make  as  few  changes  of  scene  as  possible. 

Another  complication  arises  from  the  fact  that,  al- 
ways when  a  play  has  four  or  five  acts,  and  sometimes 
when  it  has  only  three,  one  entire  act  is  comprised  in 
the  growth  of  the  plot.  That  is,  the  action  generally 
gets  under  way  in  the  first  act  and  does  not  come  to 
a  chmax  till  somewhere  in  the  third  or  later ;  and  so  its 
"  reach  "  completely  overspreads  the  second  act.  Now, 
an  act  must  achieve,  for  ends  more  theatrical  than  dra- 
matic, some  arrangement  of  its  own,  irrespective  of  its 
relation  to  the  play.  It  must  have  a  beginning,  a  mid- 
dle and  an  end ;  and  the  end  must  have  a  certain  cumu- 
lative effect.  To  preserve  these  constinictive  qualities 
within  the  act,  and  yet  not  allow  it  to  obstruct  or  divert 
the  pressure  toward  the  climax,  is  another  difficulty. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  the  true  craftsman,  know- 
ing, as  he  usually  does,  everything  about  his  art,  and 
something  about  everything  else  under  the  sun,  has  a 
serene  mastery  over  this,  as  over  all  other  parts  of  his 
work.  But  it  is  easy  to  figure  to  oneself  the  distraction 
of  the  mere  dramatic  tinker  while  he  is  knocking  together 
this  first  half  of  his  unsteady  construction. 

It  is  an  endless  theme,  this  growth  of  the  earlier  parts 
of  a  play;   and  only  a  few  points  can  be  illustrated. 

Growth  of  Action  Illustrated 

In  "  The  Great  Galcoto  "  we  have  the  familiar  Paolo- 
and-Francesca  or  Launcelot-and-Guinevere  situation,  in- 


38  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

volving  the  elderly  husband,  the  young  wife  and  the 
young  lover,  between  whom  and  the  husband  there  is 
a  strong  attachment.  The  old  material  seems  to  have 
undying  interest,  perhaps  because  it  mingles  so  inex- 
tricably the  direst  tragedy  and  the  deepest  pathos.  It 
makes  the  exposition  rather  easy,  although  the  usual 
preliminaries  are  always  necessary,  whether  the  story 
be  old  or  new.  Moreover,  in  the  present  play  the  point 
of  departure  is  not  quite  that  of  the  old  legends.  We 
are  given  to  understand  that  the  young  wife  and  the 
adopted  son  are  not  only  innocent  of  any  thought  of  evil, 
but  would  have  remained  so  had  they  not  been  driven 
to  desperation  by  the  torture  of  the  merest  small  talk 
—  not  slander,  but  listless,  aimless,  dispassionate  gossip. 

In  this  connection  it  must  be  observed  that  no  play 
has  more  adroitly  achieved  the  difficult  task  to  which 
the  modern  drama  so  often  addresses  itself  —  that  of 
keeping  the  world  out,  and  yet  letting  it  come  in.  The 
interest  is  narrowed  and  centered,  and  the  attention  of 
the  audience  is  strictly  economized ;  for  even  in  the  new 
version  there  are  only  seven  characters,  and  two  stage 
settings.  It  is  all  very  different  from  the  old  plays,  in 
which  the  characters  swarmed,  or  roamed  in  and  out 
on  the  slightest  pretense,  and  where  there  was  a  new 
setting  for  every  scene.  Yet  there  is  none  of  the  vague 
feeling  of  isolation,  of  being  swung  out  into  space  away 
from  all  social  environment,  which  detracts  from  so 
many  works  of  the  Ibsenic  school.  The  world  presses 
in  on  all  sides,  and  the  atmosphere  is  deep  and  rich 
and  vital  —  deplorably  vital,  it  is  true;  but  that  is 
unavoidable  with  the  chosen  motive.  It  is  high  art 
to  create  a  complex  effect  by  means  so  simple  and 
uncomplicated. 

Aside  from  the  idle  gossip  there  is  almost  no  ex- 


RISE   OR   GROWTH   OF   THE   ACTION    39 

citing  force,  unless  the  plan  of  the  secretaryship  may 
be  said  to  give  a  forward  impulse.  The  action,  then, 
begins  with  a  situation  of  perfect  balance  and  repose, 
in  which  the  principal  characters  (described  as  an  inno- 
cent woman  and  two  honest  men)  are  quite  harmonious. 
In  less  than  two  acts  it  culminates  in  the  total  wreck 
of  the  household.  Two  lives  are  blighted  and  the  third 
is  terminated  in  a  duel.  What  could  be  a  finer  effect 
than  to  give  this  rapid  and  stupendous  growth  any 
appearance  of  probability,  any  semblance  of  the  in- 
evitable.'' It  is  too  long  to  trace  the  steps;  but 
there  are  forward  and  backward  movements  even  in 
the  swiftness  of  its  stealthy  advance.  Seldom  is  dra- 
matic art,  in  this  part  of  a  play,  so  severely  tested  and 
tried. 

But  strangest  and  best  of  all,  considering  the  south- 
ern origin  of  the  play,  is  the  indirection  of  the  action. 
The  two  duels,  both  of  which  result  fatally,  are  kept 
off  the  stage.  Even  the  cafe  scene  (it  would  mean  a 
crowd),  with  its  quarrel  and  challenge,  is  present  in 
description  merely.  There  is  no  villain,  for  Don  Severo, 
who  comes  nearest,  is  not  at  all  the  old  stage  type,  in 
mantle  and  sombrero. 

Now  when  a  Spanish  dramatist  resolutely  banishes 
the  cloak-and-dagger  scenes  of  his  play  to  the  wings, 
and  denies  himself  the  consolation  of  creating  a  black- 
browed  villain,  he  is  bound  to  do  something  desperate 
to  make  up  for  it. 

It  is  a  thrilling  outcome  of  this  artistic  self-denial  in 
keeping  the  crowds  and  figlits  out  of  view  of  the  audi- 
ence, that  the  restrained  power  of  the  tragic  force  falls 
upon  gossip,  the  despicable  Galcoto  of  the  play.  So 
intensely  catastrophic  is  the  culmination  that  it  over- 
tops all  earlier  effects.    To  give  a  mere  abstraction  like 


40  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

idle  talk  such  potency  of  life,  to  make  it  terrible  enough 
in  its  might  to  turn  the  action  of  a  convincing  tragedy, 
and  then  to  pursue  it  swiftly  and  vindictively  to  a  dire- 
ful catastrophe  —  this  is  to  triumph  over  difficulties. 

The  one  tragedy  of  gossip  in  dramatic  literature  — 
mark  how  it  stands  midway  between  comedy  of  gossip 
and  tragedy  of  slander  —  is  the  work  of  Echegaray. 
Perhaps  it  was  providential  that  this  material  fell  into 
the  hands  of  a  Spanish  dramatist.  Who  else  could  force 
such  an  action  to  rise  so  swiftly  and  magnificently  .?• 


ly 

THE    CLIMAX 

Illustrated  hy  "  Disraeli  " 
By  Louia  Napoleon  Paekeb 

THERE  are  many  devices  that  lead  on  and  up  to 
climactic  effects  in  a  play ;   but  the  most  impor- 
tant is   suspense,  causing  tension,   and  eventu- 
ating in  something  unexpected  and  surprising. 

We  have  come  to  use  the  term  "  climax  "  as  meaning 
the  top  round  of  a  ladder,  when  in  reality  it  means,  now 
as  always,  the  ladder  itself. 

The  successive  rungs  in  the  dramatic  ladder  arc  a 
series  of  effects,  similar  in  quality  but  of  increasing 
power  and  impressiveness,  creating  suspense,  and  pres- 
ently culminating  in  some  effect  more  powerful  than 
any  other  in  the  play.  Suspense  is,  and  ever  will  be, 
until  human  nature  is  revised  and  edited  into  something 
altogether  different,  the  most  potent  spell  that  a  drama 
can  cast  over  an  audience.  "  Make  them  laugh,  make 
them  cry,  make  them  wait,"  is  good  advice  to  the  play- 
wright. It  is  easy  to  recall  great  plays  that  never 
made  an  audience  laugh,  and  others  that  never  drew  the 
tribute  of  a  tear;  but  the  play  that  never  at  any  point 
made  an  audience  wait  would  have  to  be  sought  for  with 
diligence.  It  needs  no  argument  to  prove  that  tension 
is  an  effect  wliich  must  be  created  as  early  as  possible 


42  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

in  a  play,  and  then  preserved  as  long  as  possible.  All 
that  is  necessary  is  to  show  that  dramatic  suspense  is 
different  from  suspense  in  general,  and  that,  like  every- 
thing else  in  the  severe  and  exacting  art  of  making 
plays,  it  is  hard  to  manage. 

We  are  always  coming  upon  paradoxes  in  the  study 
of  dramatic  technique ;  but  the  most  arresting  paradox 
of  all  may  be  formulated  after  this  fashion:  The  sur- 
prises of  the  stage  must  be  long  foreseen,  and  the  unex- 
pected events  must  be  anticipated  by  the  audience. 
This,  obviously,  is  an  invigorating  trial  of  skill.  Play- 
wright and  actor  in  closest  conspiracy  have  all  they 
can  do  to  harmonize  preparation  for  an  event  with 
tension  while  awaiting  it,  and  knowledge  of  what  is  com- 
ing with  surprise  when  at  length  it  comes.  It  is  not 
untried  or  experimental,  this  theory  of  dramatic  sus- 
pense, or,  more  exactly,  of  dramatic  irony.  It  is  the 
experience  of  the  ages.  Observing  it  plays  have  lived, 
and  as  a  penalty  for  disregarding  it  many  plays  have 
died.  It  is  the  source  and  spring  and  life  of  almost 
all  successful  dramatic  effects,  comedic  as  well  as  tragic. 

Dramatic  irony,  like  irony  in  general,  says  one  thing 
and  means  another,  the  very  opposite  of  what  is  said; 
and,  like  all  irony,  it  needs  interpretation.  Something 
apart  from  the  words  must  help  us  to  understand  what 
is  meant.  We  must  see  something,  or  hear  something, 
or  divine  something  that  will  point  the  significance.  In 
a  play  the  actors  are  continually  making  speeches  that 
have  two  meanings  —  one  on  the  stage,  the  other  off; 
one  for  the  players  in  their  assumed  characters,  the 
other  for  the  spectators.  The  inhabitants  of  the  mimic 
world  deceive  one  another,  entangle  one  another,  and 
are  duped,  bewildered  and  baffled  as  in  life;  but  the 
audience  is  thrilled  or  delighted  by  the  deception  or  the 


THE    CLIMAX  43 


bewilderment  —  not  only  understands  it,  but  foresees 
it  at  almost  every  point.  The  most  awful  disasters  may 
be  hanging  low  over  the  heads  of  the  unconscious  dra- 
matis persona,  and  the  most  ingenious  traps  may  be  set 
for  their  blundering  feet,  but  the  audience  is  in  the 
secret  of  them  all. 

How,  then,  do  the  spectators  see  and  foresee  so  much 
and  so  clearly?  It  is  a  distinctly  contrived  effect.  The 
dramatist  works  continually  with  the  audience  and  never 
against  it.  It  has  been  said  that  the  spectator  is  part 
author  of  the  play.  Certainly  he  is  in  the  author's  con- 
fidence, so  that  he  may  foresee  the  crises  with  a  kind 
of  clairvoyance,  dread  the  disasters  with  awe  and  fear, 
anticipate  the  discomfitures  with  amusement,  and  in- 
dulge himself  in  that  thoughtful  laughter  which  we  are 
told  true  comedy  should  always  awaken. 

There  must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  this  prevision 
on  the  part  of  the  audience.  The  seat  in  the  theater  is 
not  the  easy-chair  by  the  reading  lamp.  The  man  at  the 
play  has  no  time  to  reason  anything  out  for  himself. 
He  may  not,  like  the  reader  of  a  novel,  turn  back  to 
review  earlier  chapters  or  forward  to  snatch  the  out- 
come from  the  closing  pages.  The  novelist  works 
against  the  reader,  but  the  dramatist  is  ever  with  the 
spectator. 

The  distribution,  then,  of  the  forces  in  the  theater  is 
—  the  audience  and  the  playwright  on  one  side  of  the 
footlights  and  the  player  folk  on  the  other.  The  spec- 
tator objects  to  being  puzzled.  There  is  a  wide  variance 
between  the  gentle  reader  and  the  savage  ticket  buyer. 
The  one,  having  perhaps  borrowed  his  novel  from  a 
friend  or  from  the  nearest  library,  has  no  stakes  on; 
the  other,  having  paid  his  money  at  the  box  office,  pro- 
poses to  find  fault  if  he  is  not  able  to  seize  promptly 


44  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

upon  every  point  in  the  play.  Sometimes  he  seems  not 
to  mind  being  fairly  hemmed  in  and  driven  to  an  under- 
standing of  the  plot. 

Having,  then,  by  means  of  dramatic  suspense,  which 
is  its  own  kind,  reached  the  top  of  the  ladder,  what 
effects  do  we  usually  find  worked  out  before  we  begin 
to  come  down  ?  Two  only  may  be  mentioned.  We  often 
find  reversal  of  the  action,  and  involved  with  it,  or  at 
no  far  remove,  the  sudden  recognition  or  revelation  of 
some  character.  Reversal  or  recoil  is  merely  the  old 
device  by  which  a  train  of  events  produces  the  opposite 
of  the  effect  intended ;  and  recognition  usually  clears 
up  a  mistaken  identity  or  unexpectedly  brings  upon  the 
scene  some  one  whose  sudden  appearance  is  momentous. 
These  are  powerful  elements  of  emotional  interest,  and 
when  they  are  brought  together  they  are  likely  to  make 
a  dominating  crisis. 

There  are  various  and  interesting  kinds,  one  might 
almost  say  classes,  of  dramatic  recognition.  The  old- 
est and  most  fatigued  of  all  is  the  kind  that  discovers 
the  long  lost,  etc.  Mistaken  identities  in  prose  fiction 
and  in  the  drama !  A  ponderous  tome  might  be  written 
on  the  subject.  The  drama  has  always  been  enamored 
of  them,  and  is  desperately  clinging  to  them  even  now, 
though  by  all  laws  of  common  sense  they  belong  to  an 
earlier  and  darker  age.  However,  the  realist  achieves 
an  interesting  variation  by  making  a  sudden  recogni- 
tion of  some  one's  true  nature  take  the  place  of  the 
discovered  masquerader  or  the  returned  prodigal. 
"  Torvald,"  exclaims  Nora,  "  in  that  moment  it  burst 
upon  me  that  I  had  been  living  here  these  eight  years 
with  a  strange  man  " ;  and  so  strong  is  the  spiritual 
pressure  back  of  these  simple  words  that  we  find  the 
situation   quite   as   thrilling  as  the   one,   for  example. 


THE    CLIMAX  45 


which  unmasks  Hero  to  Claudio  at  the  altar.  Then, 
too,  there  is  the  sudden  confrontation,  which  at  any 
time  and  in  any  play  may  be  used  with  honest  dramatic 
effect. 


Climax  Illustrated 

Mr.  Parker's  "  Disraeli,"  a  popular  dramatization 
of  certain  episodes  in  the  great  Jew's  career,  well  illus- 
trates the  skill  needed  in  arranging  the  materials  of 
a  play  so  that  events  may  be  intelligible,  and  the  inter- 
est may  move  steadily  toward  a  controlling  and  dra- 
matic climax.  Slight  as  this  play  is,  in  the  matter  of 
constructive  preparation  and  careful  direction  of  lines 
of  plot  toward  approaching  crises,  it  is  worthy  of 
Sardou  or  Augier.  And  its  technical  points  are  per- 
haps more  easily  observed  than  if  its  theme  were  of 
deeper  import  and  significance. 

First  it  may  be  noted  that  the  author  disavows  any 
attempt  to  make  an  historical  play,  claiming  only  to 
show  "  a  picture  of  the  days  —  not  so  very  long  ago 
—  in  which  Disraeli  lived,  and  some  of  the  racial, 
social,  and  political  prejudices  he  fought  against  and 
conquered." 

To  be  exact,  the  play  Is  plotted  in  1875,  and  pictures 
only  a  few  weeks  out  of  Disraeli's  later  life,  about  six 
years  before  his  death. 

The  reason  for  choosing  this  period  is  evident  enough. 
The  young  Disraeli,  with  his  brocaded  waistcoats,  his 
brooches  and  massy  chains,  his  morning  cane  and  his 
evening  cane,  was  a  picturesque  figure;  but  there  was 
nothing  dramatic  about  him.  The  Disraeli  of  middle 
life,  playing  opposite  to  Gladstone  (they  seem  created 
for  dramatic  purposes)  against  a  complicated  political 


46  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

and  social  background,  may  one  day  be  the  hero  of 
historical  drama  at  its  greatest;  but  the  time  is  not 
yet. 

As  for  the  Disraeli  of  the  Suez  Canal  scheme,  he  is 
an  alluring  hero  for  high  comedy.  He  dreams  in  em- 
pires, merely  to  give  the  public  an  occasional  sensation. 
He  dickers  with  the  Khedive  of  Egypt  and  buys  the  key 
to  India  amid  roars  of  popular  applause,  though  noth- 
ing in  particular  comes  of  the  bargain  in  the  end.  With 
infinite  flourish  he  bedecks  his  queen  with  her  new  title, 
Empress  of  India,  though  as  soon  as  the  excitement  sub- 
sides the  whole  nation  feels  such  addition  superfluous 
to  the  ancient  style  of  the  English  sovereigns.  He  ex- 
torts concession  from  Russia  by  menace  which  has  noth- 
ing back  of  it.  His  triumphs  often  prove,  when  stripped 
of  his  own  grandiloquent  phrasing,  clear  cases  of 
much  ado  about  nothing. 

The  play  is  made  after  the  approved  fashion  In  his- 
toric drama,  with  an  outer  action  and  an  inner  action, 
the  outer  plot  being  a  setting  or  frame  of  authentic 
history,  while  the  inner  plot  is  invented  or  created.  In 
workmanlike  fashion,  too,  the  smaller  plot  reaches  out 
to  the  larger,  and  the  larger  draws  in  upon  the  smaller, 
to  the  enlivenment  and  enrichment  of  both. 

The  outside  or  enveloping  plot  is  concerned  with 
Disraeli's  struggle  to  outwit  the  Russian  government 
and  be  first  to  make  terms  with  Ismail  of  Egypt  for 
his  controlling  interest  in  the  Suez  Canal.  But  such  a 
conflict  to  be  interesting  in  a  theater  must  be  focused 
to  some  personal  issue  that  can  work  itself  out  in  the 
narrow  limits  of  the  modern  stage.  Hence  we  have 
among  the  characters  Mrs.  Travers,  a  beautiful  and 
brilliant  intrigante  acting  as  spy  for  Russia,  and  Lord 
Deeford,  a  stolid  young  Briton,  whom  Disraeli,  having 


THE    CLIMAX  47 


broken  to  his  uses,  sends  post-haste  to  overtake  the 
Russian  embassy  on  its  way  to  Egypt. 

The  inside  or  enveloped  plot  is  the  love  affair  of 
Lord  Deeford  and  Lady  Clarissa,  which,  to  be  saved 
from  commonplace  romanticism,  must  be  interwoven 
with  the  larger  interest  so  that  its  points  of  suspense 
may  coincide  with  the  crises  in  affairs  of  state. 

Needless  to  say,  it  is  the  capable  Dizzy  who  holds 
the  threads  of  outer  and  inner  plot  in  his  hands  and 
ties  them  neatly  in  the  same  knot. 

Li  other  words,  having  the  childless  man's  interest  in 
young  people's  lovemaking,  Disraeli  plays  fairy  god- 
father to  bring  Deeford  and  Clarissa  together;  but 
having  also  the  diplomat's  eye  for  men  who  may  be 
useful,  he  makes  the  hope  of  winning  Clarissa  spur 
Charles  to  superhuman  effort  in  his  expedition  to 
Egypt. 

This  framework,  adroitly  elaborated  as  to  details, 
holds  up  three  of  the  four  acts. 

It  is  clear  that  the  climax  must  directly  involve 
Disraeli  and  Mrs.  Travers,  and  indirectly  affect  the 
amusing  lovers  who  have  been  so  irresistibly  drawn 
into  the  whirlpool  of  Disraeli's  machinations. 

As  there  are  four  acts  altogether,  the  audience  ex- 
pects a  culmination  somewhere  in  the  third.  But  be- 
fore the  first  act  is  half  over,  we  are  informed  in  un- 
equivocal terms  what  events  are  working  toward  a 
climax.  Witness  this  dialogue  between  Disraeli  and 
Sir  Michael  Probert,  manager  of  the  Bank  of  England. 

Prohert.  Do  you  seriously  mean  you  are  thinking 
of  purchasing  the  Suez  Canal? 

Disraeli.  I  have  seldom  meant  anything  half  so 
seriously.   .   .   . 

Prohert.    Why  in  such  a  hurry? 


48  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


Disraeli.  Because  Russia  knows  of  this  opportunity 
to  purchase  the  highroad  to  India. 

Probert.     Then  why  hasn't  she  purchased  it? 

Disraeli.  She's  not  ready  —  she  has  no  fleet;  but 
—  she  is  watching  us.     She  is  watching  me  — 

(Mrs.  Travers  opens  a  small  casement  in  the  French 
window  and  listens.) 

Later  in  the  act,  after  Probert,  pronouncing  the 
scheme  hair-brained,  contemptuously  refuses  all  as- 
sistance, the  end  is  even  more  plainly  prefigured. 

Disraeli.  Nothing  is  final,  Sir  Michael.  I  may  send 
for  you  again. 

Further  on,  in  a  colloquy  between  Dizzy  and  his 
faithful  Mary,  occurs  this  significant  plot  line: 

Disraeli.  I  have  been  searching  for  a  young  man. 
With  such  a  prize  as  Clarissa,  Deeford  may  become 
just  what  I  need. 

But  these  speeches,  like  all  strongly  structural  lines, 
accomplish  several  ends.  They  not  only  look  forward, 
but  meantime  bring  on  the  stressed  scene  of  the  first 
act,  with  the  audience  fully  in  the  secret.  When  Dis- 
raeli, in  the  longest  speech  of  the  play,  makes  his  spec- 
tacular and  rhetorical  appeal  to  Deeford,  urging  him 
to  pass  from  the  Parish  to  the  Empire,  the  dazed  young 
man  but  partially  understands  what  is  meant.  The 
audience,  however,  gets  the  full  effect  of  Disraeli's  pyro- 
technical  speech  and  Deeford's  slowly  brightening 
imagination.    This  sends  down  a  good  curtain. 

In  the  second  act  there  is  deliberate  preparation  for 
the  recognition,  which  in  time-honored  fashion  is  to 
form  part  of  the  climax.  It  is  Disraeli  who  first  realizes 
that  Foljambe,  one  of  his  clerks,  is  in  league  with  IMrs. 
Travers.  But  his  revelation  of  this  discovery  to  Dee- 
ford and  Clarissa  is  pointed  at  the  audience,  so  that 


THE    CLIMAX  49 


when  Mrs.  Travers'  last  disguise  is  thrown  off,  the 
irony  of  the  situation  may  be  sharpened,  and  her  de- 
feat may  come  with  full  dramatic  force. 

Disraeli.  Foljambe  and  Mrs.  Travers  are  agents  — 
spies  —  sent  here  by  Russia. 

Then  comes  the  culmination  of  the  second  act,  always 
difficult  to  manage.  Deeford,  spurred  on  by  the  master- 
ful Dizzy,  undertakes  to  follow  Foljambe  on  his  flight 
to  Egypt.  First  he  plans  to  leave  "  the  day  after  to- 
morrow," then  "  tomorrow,"  then  he  thinks  it  possible 
that  he  might  make  ready  to  go  by  the  night  mail, 
and  finally  he  rushes  off  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes. 

Deeford.  But  my  luggage  — !  I  sha'n't  have  even 
a  clean  collar ! 

Disraeli.  Damn  your  collar!  Catch  the  Dover  Ex- 
press at  eleven  from  Charing  Cross.  You  will  be  in 
Marseilles  tomorrow  morning,  and  in  Cairo  a  day 
ahead  of  Foljambe  —  a  day  ahead! 

Soon  after  the  opening  of  the  third  act  we  are  con- 
scious that  the  action  is  moving  in  the  familiar  dramatic 
zigzag,  falling  and  rising,  falling  again  still  lower,  and 
rising  again  a  little  higher,  till  it  reaches  its  highest 
point.  First  is  indicated  the  tiresome  suspense  and 
discouragement,  as  Disraeli  and  Clarissa  wait  for  the 
cable  from  Deeford.  Then  arrives  the  cable,  "  The 
Suez  Canal  purchase  is  completed  and  the  check  ac- 
cepted." Deeford  is  expected  to  arrive  with  trumpets 
blowing,  drums  beating,  flags  flying  and  wedding  bells 
ringing. 

Then  comes  the  sharpest  turn  in  the  play.  Enter 
Hugh  Myers,  the  banker  who  has  stood  behind  Disraeli 
in  this  transaction.  To  the  horror  of  everyone,  he 
announces  that  he  has  gone  bankrupt,  that  Russia  has 
ruined  him,  and  that  his  check  drawn  on  the  Bank  of 


50  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

England  is  waste  paper.  (Exit  Myers  in  the  depth 
of  despair.) 

(Enter  then  Lady  Beaconsfield.) 

Disraeli.  Mary,  you  have  stood  by  me  in  many  pre- 
dicaments. I  am  in  the  worst  I  was  ever  in.  It 's 
horrible.     I  am  tied  hand  and  foot. 

The  lowest  point  has  now  been  reached,  and  every- 
thing is  ready  for  the  swiftly  mounting  climax. 

Then  follows  an  effective  comedic  reversal.  Mrs. 
Travers  is  announced.  To  deceive  her  into  thinking 
that  nothing  momentous  is  happening,  Disraeli  hastily 
ties  himself  into  his  dressing-gown,  falls  upon  a  sofa, 
and  feigns  to  be  very  weak  and  ill.  Gradually,  as  he 
feebly  converses,  he  leads  up  to  a  full  recognition  of 
Mrs.  Travers  as  a  spy  whom  he  knew  in  Switzerland 
years  before;  and  finally,  by  pretending  to  exult  over 
the  cable  from  Deeford,  he  surprises  from  her  a  boastful 
assertion  that  it  is  she  who  has  plotted  to  bankrupt 
Myers. 

All  this  pro^^des  a  striking  setting  for  the  desperate 
climactic  expedient.  Probert,  who  meantime  has  been 
peremptorily  summoned,  arrives  in  a  suspicious  and 
obstinate  frame  of  mind.  Disraeli  is  determined  upon 
a  last  brilliant  coup  to  force  the  Bank  of  England  to 
honor  Myers'  check.  He  bears  down  upon  Probert  so 
suddenly  and  powerfully,  threatening  to  smash  the 
Bank  and  disgrace  the  board  of  directors,  that  the 
Manager  is  fairly  swept  off  his  feet,  and  signs  the  note 
almost  before  he  realizes  what  he  is  doing. 

Probert.  There,  take  your  paper.  I  have  signed  it. 
I  have  signed  it  to  save  the  Bank.  It  is  outrageous  that 
a  man  like  you  should  have  such  power.     (Exit.) 

Clarissa  (with  joyous  enthusiasm).  Oh,  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli, thank  God  you  have  such  power! 


THE    CLIMAX  51 


Then  comes  the  whimsical  tag  so  frequently  appended 
to  the  close  of  a  strenuous  act  in  high  comedy.  In  this 
case  it  happens  to  be  extremely  characteristic  of  the 
great  Tory  minister,  who  more  than  once  in  his  career 
forced  an  issue  by  boldly  assuming  power  when  he  had 
it  not. 

Disraeli.  I  have  n't,  dear  child ;  but  he  does  n't  know 
that. 

It  is  praise  to  say  that  the  figure  of  the  great  Tory 
minister  is  transferred  from  the  pages  of  history  to  the 
pages  of  the  play.  It  is  higher  praise  to  say  that  the 
society  of  his  time  is  so  revived  as  to  form  a  harmonious 
background  for  his  every  appearance.  But,  greatest 
achievement  of  all,  the  colloquy  is  kept  so  perfectly  in 
key  that  when  Disraeli  utters  an  epigram  it  is  given  a 
fine  spontaneity.  This  makes  the  play  worthy  to  be 
called  dramatic  literature. 

Of  the  last  act  we  are  perhaps  unduly  critical,  having 
become  accustomed  to  the  indeterminate  endings  in 
problematic  drama.  Such  a  play  as  this,  being  historic 
or  semi-historic,  can  hardly  be  expected  to  raise  ques- 
tions, psychological  or  otherwise.  Not  closing  with  an 
interrogation  point,  then,  it  must  close  with  a  period. 
Act  III  comes  to  an  admirable  comedy  climax,  it  is  true 
—  so  good,  indeed,  that  no  reader  will  regret  the  change 
from  the  original  version.  But  if  it  brought  down  the 
final  curtain  the  audience  would  be  likely  to  go  away 
dissatisfied.  The  Avorst  that  can  be  said  of  Act  IV  is 
tliat  Mr.  Parker  therein  takes  occasion  to  gratify  his 
lifelong  fondness  for  pageantry. 


THE   FALL   AND   CLOSE   OF  THE   ACTION 

Variously  Illustrated 

IN  all  the  older  plays,  and  in  most  of  the  newer  ones, 
the  fourth  division  of  the  structure  is  that  which 
extends  from  the  climax  to  the  close  —  or  to  the 
catastrophe,  if  there  is  an  ultimatum  distinctly  set  off 
at  the  end  of  the  final  act.  This  part  of  the  play  is 
variously  called  the  fall,  descent,  return  or  diminuendo 
of  the  action;  and  it  accomplishes  the  disentangling  of 
the  lines  of  plot  and  the  resolution  of  the  dramatic 
forces. 

Climax  further  Considered 

Its  starting  point,  to  repeat,  is  the  climax;  which 
furnishes  an  occasion  for  saying,  first  of  all,  that  con- 
tinued study  of  the  framework  of  plays,  on  and  off  the 
stage,  tends  to  make  one  not  more,  but  rather  less  con- 
fident in  the  determination  of  the  climactic  point  or 
scene.  It  is  not  merely  that  dramatic  excitement  often 
culminates  in  successive  waves;  but  quite  as  frequently 
there  are  evolved  out  of  the  plot  two  different  kinds 
of  climax,  one  of  action,  the  other  of  emotion.  The 
maker  of  a  play,  recognizing  the  certainty  that  the 
more  obvious  climax  will  appeal  to  one  class  of  spec- 
tators, and  the  more  spiritual  effect  to  another,  does 
not  always  wish  nor  intend  to  make  the  two  appeals  at 


FALL   AND    CLOSE    OF   THE    ACTION     53 

the  same  time.  Another  compKcation  is  caused  by  the 
fact  that  sometimes  neither  of  these  climaxes  is  placed 
at  the  exact  point  where  the  plot  makes  its  most  defini- 
tive turn.  So  that,  in  any  drama,  there  may  be  three 
or  even  more  places,  each  of  which  seems,  to  one  order 
of  intelligence  or  another,  the  very  highest  point  of  the 
action. 

The  best  constructed  of  all  Shakespeare's  tragedies 
well  illustrates  the  difficulty — which,  strictly  speak- 
ing, is  no  difficulty  at  all  —  in  pointing  out  the  climax. 
The  plot  of  "  Othello  "  manifestly  turns  in  the  central 
scene  of  the  central  act,  almost  precisely  in  the  middle 
of  the  play,  with  Othello's  last  protestation  to  Desde- 
mona  —  "  when  I  love  thee  not,  chaos  is  come  again." 
Up  to  that  time  his  trust  and  devotion  have  grown; 
from  that  time  on  his  distrust  and  suspicion  grow.  At 
the  moment,  however,  there  is  nothing  about  this  avowal 
which  makes  it  more  impressive  to  the  audience  than 
some  of  the  surrounding  speeches.  In  the  minds  of  the 
more  thoughtful  spectators  the  climax  of  the  play  is  the 
point,  wherever  they  may  see  it  most  plainly,  at  which  it 
becomes  evident  to  them  that  Othello's  mind  has  been 
thoroughly  poisoned  by  lago.  It  is  the  poisoning  pro- 
cess that  makes  the  tragedy,  and  what  it  may  sooner  or 
later  lead  to  is  a  minor  consideration.  On  the  other 
hand,  to  the  more  literal  minded,  and  to  those  who  like 
to  sup  full  of  horrors,  the  whole  build  of  the  play  is 
catastrophic.  From  the  first  rise  of  the  curtain  there 
is  disaster  in  the  very  air,  and  they  consider  that  every- 
thing leads  to  the  smothering  scene.  To  them  tliat  is 
the  most  tremendous  effect  in  the  play.  All  of  which  is 
merely  another  way  of  saying  that  Shakespeare  under- 
stood human  nature  and  made  practical  use  of  his  in- 
sight in  his  attitude  toward  the  audience. 


54  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Now  what  is  true  of  this,  one  of  the  greatest  plays  in 
the  world,  is  equally  true  of  lesser  ones.  To  all  but  the 
most  literal  minded,  dramatic  climax  may  be  a  some- 
what debatable  point,  the  play  in  question,  withal, 
gaining  rather  than  losing  by  the  uncertainty.  As  a 
consequence,  then,  it  is  not  always  clear  just  where 
the  fall  of  the  action  may  be  said  to  begin. 


The  Fall  of  the  Action 

However,  the  grading  toward  the  close  must  begin 
somewhere,  and  must  have  some  continuity,  even  in 
the  most  abruptly  ended  play.  And  the  study  of  tliis 
closing  part  of  the  action  has  its  own  special  interest. 

It  is  considered  a  critical  and  trying  organic  part  of 
the  play  to  create,  and  often  the  dramatist  seems  minded 
to  shorten  it  by  thrusting  the  climax  as  far  as  possible 
toward  the  finale.  Tension  must  be  conserved,  though 
suspense  is  well-nigh  over;  and  yet  it  is  no  place  to 
introduce  new  expedients.  A  clumsy  or  too  obvious  de- 
vice is  here  more  despoiling  than  elsewhere,  and  a  false 
note  in  sentiment  may  destroy  many  honest  effects  cre- 
ated in  earlier  scenes.  Lightness  of  touch  is  chiefly 
needed,  and  there  is  peculiar  grace  in  staying  the  hand 
altogether.  If  the  action  in  the  up  grade  from  expo- 
sition to  climax  has  been  allowed  to  develop  by  natural 
laws,  without  officious  pushing  and  pulling  on  the  part 
of  the  author,  the  descent  need  be  little  more  than 
gradual  undoing  of  what  was  successfully  done  in  the 
ascent.  The  devices  of  retardation  and  delay  must 
again  be  practiced,  lest  the  end  be  too  speedily  reached ; 
the  obstacles  to  a  prosperous  or  an  unhappy  ending 
must  be  removed  one  at  a  time;   and  here,  as  elsewhere 


FALL   AND    CLOSE    OF   THE    ACTION     55 

in  the  play,  much  of  the  colloquy  must  be  dramatically 
ironic,  the  audience  being  still  best  pleased  when  allowed 
to  foresee  all  the  surprises  and  anticipate  all  the  unex- 
pected events. 

In  the  midst  of  many  difficulties  the  dramatist  finds 
one  real  help,  which,  like  all  artistic  easements,  may 
be  sadly  abused.  As  the  play  draws  to  a  close,  the 
cumulation  of  interest  makes  all  temporary  suspense 
more  exciting  than  usual.  In  the  downward  plunge  of 
a  tragedy,  a  moment  of  reaction  or  a  slight  gleam  of 
hope  will  often  be  greeted  with  a  sigh  of  relief  all  over 
the  house;  while  humor,  even  of  a  somewhat  common- 
place variety,  will  cause  hysterical  laughter.  In  comedy, 
a  truly  comedic  turn  in  affairs  is  more  excruciatingly 
funny  toward  the  end  than  anywhere  else  in  the  play. 
The  slightest  hindrance  or  break  in  the  final  movement 
to  the  close  is  of  exaggerated  effect,  no  matter  what  the 
dramatic  form. 

It  is  apparent  that  here,  more  than  elsewhere,  the 
playwright  is  tempted  to  substitute  explanation  and  de- 
scription for  action.  The  messenger  speeches  of  Greek 
tragedy  linger  unaccountably,  under  one  disguise  or 
another ;  and  often  they  go  near  to  spoil  a  modern  play 
by  being  intrusted  (as  they  were  not  with  the  Greeks) 
to  minor  actors,  who  report  the  direst  disasters  with 
the  effect  of  announcing  that  dinner  is  served. 

The  Close  of  the  Play 

But  this  brings  us  to  the  catastrophic  or  conclusive 
point,  which  is  of  far  greater  interest  than  any  other 
in  the  latter  part  of  a  play,  and  far  more  dangerous  to 
manage.  Over  the  methods  of  winding  up  the  action 
the   romanticists    and   the   realists   have    fought   many 


56  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

pitched  battles  and  are  skirmishing  to  the  present  day. 
The  criticism  which  the  newer  school  brings  to  bear  upon 
the  older  is  that  the  conventional  romantic  endings  were 
too  final  to  carry  conviction  with  them.  It  is  not  merely 
that  old  tragedy  often  closed  with  universal  slaughter, 
in  which  it  was  plain  that  some  of  the  characters  were 
involved  merely  because  that  was  the  easiest  way  to 
dispose  of  them;  but  the  happy  ending  is  apt  to  be 
quite  as  mechanical.  Often  the  curtain  descends  upon 
reward,  retribution,  fruition  and  achievement  so  far 
beyond  earthly  experience  that  the  characters  might  as 
well  be  overwhelmed  in  an  earthquake,  for  all  the  inter- 
est that  the  audience  feels  in  their  subsequent  fortunes. 
The  attitude  of  the  dramatist  toward  his  material 
seemed,  until  recently,  to  be  wrong  and  out  of  the  nor- 
mal. So  the  realist  took  counsel  with  himself  after  this 
wise :  In  making  a  play  it  is  necessary  to  choose  a  cer- 
tain action  or  series  of  actions  extending  over  a  given 
space  of  time;  and  in  order  to  use  this  material  the 
playwright  is  compelled  to  separate  it  from  the  cease- 
less stream  of  events  of  which  it  forms  a  part.  But  it  Is 
most  untruthful  and  inartistic  to  treat  the  piece  of  life 
that  he  has  chosen  as  if  it  existed  by  itself  and  had  no 
relation  to  the  world  at  large.  In  making  the  beginning 
of  his  play  he  must  recognize  that  what  gives  the  for- 
ward impulse  to  his  plot  forms  the  close  of  much  that 
has  happened  before.  In  bringing  his  play  to  a  con- 
clusion he  must  convey  the  impression  that  the  world 
continues  to  move.  If  it  is  possible  to  do  so  he  must 
allow  his  audience  to  depart,  realizing  that  even  though 
mistaken  identities  are  cleared  up,  virtues  rewarded, 
crimes  punished  and  betrothals  celebrated,  the  dramatic 
characters  are  after  all  neither  more  nor  less  than  human 
beings,  who,  if  they  are  to  remain  in  this  vale  of  friction, 


FALL   AND   CLOSE   OF   THE   ACTION     57 

will  probably  find  other  joys  and  sorrows  in  store  for 
them. 

Unquestionably  the  older  plays  managed  their  open- 
ing far  better  than  their  closing  scenes.  It  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  recall  old  tragedies  and  comedies  in  which  the 
expositions  are  made  with  the  utmost  adroitness,  show- 
ing many  glimpses  of  the  past,  and  drawing  lines  of 
action  from  various  quarters  to  converge  at  the  point 
where  the  plot  must  make  its  beginning.  But  the  end- 
ings are  apt  to  be  tremendously  conclusive,  without  any 
reaching  out  toward  the  future,  as  if  all  the  world  had 
come  to  an  end  with  the  fall  of  the  curtain  upon  the 
little  world  of  the  stage. 

It  was  chiefly  in  revolt  against  the  romanticistic  con- 
clusion that  the  realist  began  to  experiment  in  his  own 
kind  of  construction.  In  fiction,  he  abandoned  the 
chronicle  and  the  biographic  and  autobiographic  form, 
and  substituted  the  cross  section  of  life,  shortening  the 
time  very  greatly,  and  using  an  ingenuity  of  mechan- 
ism unknown  to  his  predecessors.  In  the  drama,  he 
foreswore  the  old  processional  form,  in  which  events 
happened  in  order  of  time,  and  endeavored  to  bring  all 
the  resources  of  his  art  to  the  creation  of  a  situation, 
which  should  be  so  vividly  set  before  the  spectators  that 
it  might  safely  be  left  with  them,  without  involving  itself 
in  the  crudity  of  an  absolute  conclusion.  In  both  novel 
and  play,  having  left  behind  the  old  story-telling  form, 
he  was  compelled  to  introduce  his  characters  under  new 
auspices,  strengthen  the  action  by  new  effects,  and  create 
and  preserve  the  illusion  by  new  hints  and  suggestions. 

There  is  space  for  only  one  illustration.  Compare, 
for  example,  the  denouement  of  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons  " 
with  that  of  "  A  Doll's  House."  The  former  old  favor- 
ite is  certainly  much  worse  at  the  end  than  at  the  be- 


58  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

ginning.  At  the  close  of  the  fifth  act,  after  it  has  been 
inserted  into  Pauline's  head  that  Claude  is  not  Morier 
and  is  Melnotte,  the  debt  is  paid,  Bcauseant  is  de- 
feated, divorce  proceedings  are  given  over,  and  Claude 
and  Pauline  are  reunited.  They  still  live,  but  to  the 
audience  they  are  as  dead  as  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Life 
seems  to  mean  nothing  more  to  them.  Really,  although 
"  A  Doll's  House  "  may  not  be  a  model  play,  it  seems 
by  contrast  more  than  ever  a  stroke  of  genius  that  the 
closing  of  the  door  at  the  end  of  it  should  have  set 
the  world  to  talking,  and  kept  it  talking  for  a  genera- 
tion. Poor  little  Nora  has  perhaps  been  overmuch 
worried  by  the  critics,  but  it  should  be  some  consolation 
to  her  that  she  has  even  now  a  potency  of  life  such  as 
Pauline  could  not  boast  in  the  days  of  her  pristine  glory. 


The  Foolish  Old  Ending 

It  is  discouraging  to  observe  that  the  appetite  of  the 
public  for  ultimate  sentimentality  and  untruthful  moral- 
istic effects  seems  to  be  almost  as  robust  as  ever.  It  is 
still  popular  to  make  the  prodigal  return  unexpectedly 
at  holiday  time,  when  the  snow  is  piled  against  the  win- 
dow without,  and  the  turkey  is  steaming  on  the  dinner 
table  within.  INIistaken  identities  are  not  yet  consigned 
to  the  limbo  of  unrealism,  though  it  is  becoming  more 
and  more  difficult  for  anybody  to  disappear  anywhere 
without  being  detected  and  brought  back.  As  the 
dean  of  American  letters  remarked  some  years  ago, 
people  still  enjoy  being  melted  and  horrified  and 
astonished  and  blood-curdled  and  goose-fleshed,  es- 
pecially if  they  are  comfortably  chippered-up  at 
the  end.  But  the  realists  never  set  out  to  be  re- 
formers.     They    merely    claim    that    life    and   human 


FALL   AND    CLOSE    OF   THE    ACTION     59 

nature  are  worth  studying  with  a  patience  and  self- 
abnegation  which  refuses  to  do  more  than  observe  and 
Avonder.  They  know  that  it  is  useless  to  add  anything 
to  nature  to  embellish  it,  or  take  anything  away  from  it 
to  refine  it.  And  if  they  can  correct  the  old  methods 
a  little  here,  and  adjust  them  a  little  there,  they  are 
very  well  satisfied. 


VI 

ANALYSIS    OF    "A    DOLL'S    HOUSE" 

To  Illustrate  all  Technical  Points  Previously 
Mentioned 

FOLLOWING  the  suggestions  in  the  first  chapter, 
the  study  is  begun  by  relating,  in  chronological 
order,  the  events  \vhich  took  place  before  the  first 
curtain  rises.     As  "  A  Doll's  House  "  is  catastrophic 
(see  next  chapter),  the  story  is  of  some  length. 

The  "  Story  "  of  "  A  Doll's  House  " 

About  1850  there  lived,  in  a  small  town  in  Norway, 
a  man  of  extravagant  tastes,  a  spendthrift,  who  was 
continually  in  debt,  and  was  sometimes  accused  of  dis- 
honesty. He  was  a  widower  with  an  only  child,  a 
daughter,  who  was  much  like  himself,  and  whom  he 
indulged  and  spoiled,  calling  her  his  doll  child,  and 
playing  with  her  as  she  played  with  her  dolls. 

Her  name  was  Nora;  and  she  becomes  the  heroine 
of  this  play. 

As  the  heroine,  then,  she  must  be  in  the  center  of  a 
group  of  characters  closely  related,  but  so  set  apart 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  that  the  plot  can  work  itself 
out  free  from  casual  interruptions.  Nora  probably  had 
many  friends,  for,  like  her  father,  she  was  of  a  social 
nature.     But  Ibsen,  always  economical  of  minor  char- 


ANALYSIS   OF   "A  DOLL'S   HOUSE"      61 


acters,  selects  only  one  of  these  friends  to  help  form 
the  setting  —  Nora's  schoolmate,  Christina,  who  be- 
comes the  Mrs.  Linden  of  the  play. 

Christina  is  a  girl  in  rather  poor  circumstances,  who 
has  lost  her  father,  and  whose  mother  and  younger 
brothers  are  in  need  of  help.  She  may  be  described 
as  having  a  trait  which  Ibsen  admired  more  than  any 
other  —  moral  courage.  And  she  proves  to  be  the 
only  character  in  the  play  who  has  this  trait. 

While  Nora  is  still  very  young,  she  marries  impul- 
sively, and  without  much  deep  feeling.  She  soon  finds 
that  Torvald  Helmer  is  the  direct  opposite  of  her 
father  —  cautious,  conservative,  fearful  of  debt,  con- 
ventional, and  rather  pompous  and  self-righteous.  She 
discovers,  too,  that  he  is  destitute  of  moral  courage. 
He  has  been  in  government  service,  but  seeing  little 
prospect  of  advancement,  he  begins  to  practice  law 
after  his  marriage.  He  and  Nora  make  their  home  in 
Christiania. 

Christina  falls  in  love  genuinely  and  sincerely  with 
a  man  by  the  name  of  Krogstad,  a  college  chum  of 
Helmer's,  who  is  also  a  lawyer.  But  Krogstad  is  poor, 
and  Christina  is  greatly  burdened,  for  her  mother  has 
become  bedridden,  and  her  young  brothers  need  an  edu- 
cation. She  has  another  suitor  who  is  well-to-do,  and 
whom  she  thinks  it  her  duty  to  marry.  Believing  that 
if  she  breaks  with  Krogstad,  it  is  only  right  to  try 
to  put  an  end  to  his  love  for  her,  she  writes  him  a 
heartless-sounding  letter,  saying  she  has  ceased  to  care 
for  him.  She  then  marries  the  other  suitor,  Linden 
by  name,  who  has  the  means  to  make  her  and  her  mother 
and  brothers  comfortable.  But  the  marriage  proves 
unhappy. 

Krogstad,     disappointed,     disheartened,     and     ship- 


62  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

wrecked  (as  he  afterwards  says),  removes  to  Christlania 
where  he  marries  —  unhappily  too  —  and  lives  in  pov- 
erty and  discomfort. 

Meantime  Helmer,  Nora's  husband,  overworks  in 
building  up  his  law  practice,  so  that  a  year  after  his 
marriage  he  falls  ill,  and  is  ordered  to  Italy  to  save 
his  life.  But  there  is  no  money.  Nora  dares  not  go 
to  her  father  to  ask  help,  for  he  is  ill  and  not  expected 
to  live.  So  in  despair,  and  without  her  husband's 
knowledge,  she  appeals  to  Krogstad,  who  negotiates  a 
loan  for  her,  with  her  father  as  security.  But  Nora 
is  unable  to  get  her  father's  signature,  and  so  forges  his 
name  on  the  promissory  note.  Furthermore,  she  dates 
the  endorsement  three  days  after  her  father's  death  — 
thus  incriminating  herself.  Krogstad  knows  all  about 
this,  but  sympathizes  as  an  old  friend,  and  has  at  the 
time  no  motive  for  revealing  it  or  making  trouble. 

Nora's  view  of  the  matter  is  refreshing.  She  ex- 
plains later  that  if  the  law  takes  no  account  of  motives, 
it  must  be  very  bad  indeed.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me,"  she  exclaims  to  Krogstad,  "  that  a  daughter  has 
no  right  to  spare  her  dying  father  anxiety?  —  that  a 
wife  has  no  right  to  save  her  husband's  life?  I  don't 
know  much  about  the  law,  but  I  'm  sure  that  some- 
where or  other  you  will  find  that  that  is  allowed." 

Nora  and  Helmer  go  to  Italy  for  a  year.  Of  their 
life  there  we  know  only  one  detail.  At  Capri,  Nora 
learns  to  dance  the  tarantella,  that  wild  dance  which 
the  Neapolitans  throw  themselves  into  when  they  are 
glad,  and  when  they  are  sad,  and  when  they  are  mad. 
This  becomes  the  symbol  of  the  play. 

Helmer's  health  being  restored,  he  and  Nora  return 
to  Christiania,  where  they  live  frugally.  Nora  saves 
from  her  personal  allowance,  and  sometimes  works  at 


ANALYSIS  OF  "A  DOLL'S  HOUSE"   63 

copying  far  into  the  night,  in  order  to  pay  installments 
and  interest  on  her  debt;  and  she  practices  all  kinds 
of  deception,  to  keep  her  husband  in  ignorance  of  the 
matter. 

At  this  point  it  becomes  evident  how  complex  is 
Helmer's  character.  His  fear  and  loathing  of  debt  is 
creditable  rather  than  otherwise;  but  with  it  is  in- 
volved a  pompous  superiority,  a  dislike  to  owe  any- 
thing to  his  doll  of  a  wife,  and  a  dastardly  cowardice  in 
face  of  the  world's  opinion. 

As  time  goes  on  there  are  three  children,  and  they 
are  all  as  contented  as  is  possible  in  the  circumstances, 
not  realizing  that  a  doll's  house  can  never  be  a  real 
home. 

Krogstad,  meantime,  is  living  in  bitter  poverty,  with 
a  large  family  to  support.  Once  when  his  wife  is  very 
ill  he  forges  a  note,  feeling  that  he  is  doing  no  worse 
than  many  others.  The  crime  becomes  generally  known, 
though  it  does  not  get  into  the  courts,  and  Krogstad 
finds  himself  down  and  out.  Finally  he  is  forced  to 
take  a  subordinate  position  in  the  Joint  Stock  Bank 
of  Christiania. 

Mi's.  Linden  continues  to  live  in  the  small  town 
from  which  they  all  came.  Her  husband  dies,  leaving 
his  affairs  in  a  bad  state.  She  struggles  for  three  years 
to  support  her  mother  and  brothers,  doing  everything 
possible  to  turn  an  honest  penny.  At  intervals  she 
does  some  office  work. 

Finally,  eight  years  after  Nora's  forgery,  an  event 
happens  which,  though  it  seems  as  ordinary  and  com- 
monplace as  all  the  rest,  is  eminently  dramatic.  That 
is,  it  starts  up  a  train  of  events  out  of  which  a  play 
can  be  made.  Or,  to  use  another  figure,  it  begins  to 
tangle  the  life  lines  of  these  four  people  into  a  knot 


64  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

which,  once  it  is  tied,  will  mark  an  effective  dramatic 
culmination. 

Helmer  is  made  manager  of  the  Joint  Stock  Bank. 

This  brings  the  affairs  of  Nora,  Helmer,  Mrs.  Lin- 
den and  Krogstad  to  one  and  the  same  crisis,  in  this 
way: 

Krogstad  foresees  at  once  that  Helmer,  whom  he 
knows  of  old,  will  throw  him  out  of  the  bank.  Now 
Krogstad  has  held  his  position  very  creditably  for  a 
year  and  a  half.  His  sons  are  growing  up,  and  he 
is  trying  for  their  sake  to  win  back  his  respectability. 
His  foot  is  on  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder,  and  he  is 
desperate  at  the  thought  of  being  kicked  off,  back  into 
the  mire.  So  he  goes  to  Nora,  and  threatens  to  expose 
her  forgery  if  she  does  not  plead  for  him  with  Helmer. 
And  he  is  very  explicit  in  what  he  says  to  Nora :  "  This 
I  may  tell  you  —  if  I  'm  flung  into  the  gutter  a  second 
time,  you  shall  keep  me  company.' 


5J 


The  Use  of  the  Material 

But  this  is  not  the  play:  it  is  merely  preparation. 
The  play  is  just  ready  to  begin.  All  these  details, 
which  make  a  rather  long  story  and  take  some  time 
in  the  telling,  must  be  woven  into  the  dramatic  warp 
and  woof,  the  play  all  the  time  making  progress  — 
forging  ahead,  as  well  as  looking  backward  to  bring 
in  all  these  facts. 

Thus  we  begin  to  see,  faintly  and  vaguely,  what  it 
means  to  build  a  play.  Every  great  speech  must  do 
three  things  at  the  same  time:  it  must  reveal  character, 
it  must  keep  the  plot  moving,  and  it  must  be  interesting 
on  its  own  account. 

To  illustrate  how  the  briefest  lines  may  be  so  skill- 


ANALYSIS  OF  "A  DOLL'S  HOUSE"   65 

fully  worded  and  so  adroitly  introduced  as  to  serve 
several  structural  purposes  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
the  following  passage  from  Act  III  may  be  quoted. 
Nora  is  in  colloquy  with  her  old  nurse. 

Nora.  Dear  old  Anna  —  you  were  a  good  mother  to 
me  when  I  was  little. 

Anna.     My  poor  little  Nora  had  no  mother  but  me. 

Nora.  And  if  my  little  ones  had  nobody  else,  I  am 
sure  you  would  —  nonsense,  nonsense ! 

From  these  few  words  we  learn  something  of  the 
past,  namely,  that  Nora  was  a  motherless  child.  We 
also  learn  something  about  the  present,  namely,  that 
Nora  is  becoming  desperate  and  planning  flight  or 
suicide.  In  the  same  instant  also  a  fact  is  planted  or 
impressed  upon  the  attention  of  the  audience  to  be  re- 
called later  —  the  fact  that  Nora's  children  have  always 
been  in  the  care  of  the  motherly  nurse  who  reared  Nora 
herself.  This  recurs  with  significant  meaning  when 
Nora  finally  leaves  her  home  without  a  last  look  at  the 
children,  saying,  "  I  know  they  are  in  better  hands 
than   mine." 

To  accomplish  so  many  purposes  in  such  brief,  effort- 
less, unforced  speeches,  without  break  in  the  dialogue 
or  pause  in  the  steady  development  of  the  plot,  is  art 
indeed  —  the  high  and  difficult  art  of  dramaturgy. 


Building  the  Play 

The  exposition  of  "A  Doll's  House"  is  made  in 
Ibsen's  earlier  manner,  by  means  of  a  conversation 
between  the  two  old  friends,  Nora  and  Mrs.  Linden,  who 
have  not  met  in  ten  years.  This  is  a  conventional 
way  of  beginning,  and  the  audience  knows  that  it  is 


66  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

being  talked  at,  but  as  it  is  getting  information  all  the 
time,  it  does  not  become  impatient. 

The  exciting  force  is  Krogstad's  threatening  speech 
to  Nora.  But  since,  as  far  as  possible,  everything 
must  be  objectified  on  the  stage,  this  threat  has  a  cor- 
responding action.  The  exciting  force  is  something 
done  as  well  as  something  said.  Krogstad  drops  the 
fatal  letter  to  Helmer  into  the  box.  As  Nora  sees 
and  hears  it  fall,  she  cries,  "  In  the  letter  box :  there 
it  lies.     Now  we  are  lost !  " 

Mrs.  Linden's  fortunes  are  intertwined  with  the 
event  as  follows:  During  this  winter  she  finds  herself, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  relieved  of  care.  Her 
mother  dies,  and  her  brothers  are  in  business.  She 
is  very  poor,  but  free  to  do  as  she  likes.  She  sees 
in  the  newspaper  that  Nora's  husband  has  been  made 
manager  of  a  bank,  and  she  decides  to  go  to  Chris- 
tiania  and  ask  for  employment,  getting  Nora  to  inter- 
cede for  her.  As  fate  will  have  it  (and  fate  still  has 
something  to  do  with  the  working  out  of  plots  on  the 
stage),  she  makes  her  plea  to  Nora  before  Krogstad 
has  made  his  threat.  Then,  when  Nora  appeals  to 
Helmer  on  behalf  of  her  old  friend  Christina,  Hehner 
at  once  thinks  of  the  place  which  will  be  vacant  after 
he  has  thrown  Krogstad  out;  and  so  he  replies  that 
he  may  be  able  to  manage  it. 

Then  when  Nora,  in  terror,  tries  to  intercede  for 
Krogstad,  she  finds  that  she  has  unwittingly  made  her 
own  disaster  more  certain.  The  destinies  of  these  char- 
acters are  becoming  fatefully  intertwined. 

Helmer's  appointment  as  manager  of  the  bank,  then, 
is  a  dramatic  event,  because  it  brings  about  a  crisis 
in  the  lives  of  four  people,  and  begins  to  tie  their 
life  lines  into  a  knot. 


ANALYSIS  OF  "A  DOLL'S  HOUSE"   67 

But  it  Is  dramatic  for  another  reason  also.  It  turns 
or  reverses  or  recoils  upon  itself,  like  a  crisis  in  Greek 
tragedy.  It  seems  the  very  event  that  would  be  likely 
to  bring  Nora  and  Helmer  out  of  their  difficulties,  giv- 
ing them  a  comfortable  income,  and  making  it  possible 
for  Nora  to  pay  the  last  installments  on  her  debt. 
In  reality,  however,  instead  of  being  a  fortunate  event, 
it  proves  most  unfortunate  and  disastrous  and  tragic. 
The  very  irony  of  fate  is  in  it. 

At  this  point  in  any  play  there  must  be  suspense 
—  something  to  hold  up  the  interest.  The  play  cannot 
rush  on  directly  from  exciting  force  to  climax.  So  we 
find  that  Mrs.  Linden,  to  whom  Nora  tells  everything, 
offers  to  help  her  —  to  influence  Krogstad  not  to  re- 
venge himself  upon  her.  This  promise  for  the  moment 
seems  to  arrest  the  action,  and  avert  the  calamity  en- 
tirely. Krogstad  offers  to  get  the  letter  out  of  the 
box,  or  at  least  to  recover  it  from  Helmer  before  it 
is  read.  But  there  has  been  a  little  interval  of  time, 
at  the  end  of  which  Mrs.  Linden  declares  that  she  has 
changed  her  mind  —  that  there  must  be  a  full  under- 
standing between  Nora  and  Helmer.  She  says  in  a 
later  interview  with  Krogstad,  "  I  have  learned  more 
about  them  since  first  talking  with  Nora ;  they  cannot 
go  on  like  this."  So  disaster  again  threatens.  Then 
Krogstad  declares,  "  One  thing  I  can  do  and  at  once." 
He  exits,  and  the  audience,  being  in  doubt  as  to  the 
meaning  of  his  words,  is  again  in  that  suspense  which 
is  so  dramatic,  and  has  so  much  to  do  with  making  a 
good  play. 

But  we  are  approaching  the  climax.  It  is  to  be  a 
spiritual  climax,  like  that  in  Hamlet,  yet  with  two 
marvelous  effects,  powerful  as  in  Greek  tragedy: 

First:    Reversal  or  recoil. 


68  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


Second:    Recognition  or  revelation. 

The  climax  comes  when  Helmer  learns  of  Nora's 
forgery.  Nora  has  hoped  for  that  moment,  and  at 
the  same  time  has  dreaded  it.  She  has  hoped,  because, 
in  the  midst  of  her  tumult  of  feeling,  she  realizes  that 
when  Helmer  learns  of  her  crime,  he  can,  if  he  will, 
show  the  first  real  proof  of  devotion  he  has  ever  given 
her.  She  fears,  because  she  is  determined  that,  if  this 
miracle  does  happen  —  if  Helmer  does  offer  to  take 
the  blame  upon  himself  —  she  must  not  allow  him  to 
make  the  sacrifice.  She  is  determined  to  go  away  and 
perhaps  commit  suicide  in  order  to  show  the  world  that 
she  was  the  forger. 

But  the  wonderful  thing  does  not  happen.  Indeed, 
it  is  the  reverse  that  happens.  When  Nora  says,  in 
the  most  ironic  speech  of  the  play,  "  You  shall  not  take 
my  guilt  upon  yourself,"  it  at  once  appears  that  Hel- 
mer has  no  intention  of  shielding  her,  but  is  fiercely 
and  cruelly  determined  upon  quite  the  opposite.  He 
calls  her  a  hypocrite,  a  liar  and  a  criminal,  casts  all 
the  blame  upon  her,  reflects  upon  the  memory  of  her 
father,  and  makes  no  attempt  to  protect  her. 

It  is  interesting  to  note,  by  way  of  contrast,  that 
"  The  Thunderbolt,"  Pinero's  latest  play,  furnishes  a 
fine  instance  of  a  miracle  that  really  happened.  In 
that  play,  when  Phyllis  confesses  to  her  husband  that 
she  has  destroyed  a  will,  he  instantly,  without  a  mo- 
ment's thought,  takes  all  the  blame  upon  himself,  and 
is  ready  to  face  every  consequence. 

To  return:  At  the  point  of  this  reversal,  there  comes 
in  marvelous  guise  what  the  Greeks  called  recognition, 
the  clearing  up  of  a  mistaken  identity.  Only  in  this 
case  it  is  not  the  discovery  of  a  long  lost  brother  or 
child.      It   is    a   mistaken    spiritual   identity   which   is 


ANALYSIS  OF  "A  DOLL'S  HOUSE"   69 

cleared  up.  Nora  cries,  "  Li  that  moment  it  burst 
upon  me  that  I  had  been  living  here  these  eight  years 
with  a  strange  man." 

But  before  this,  the  last  hope  has  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared, quite  in  Greek  tragedy  manner.  Krogstad's 
second  letter  comes,  returning  the  promissory  note  and 
withdrawing  all  his  threats.  There  is  one  breathless 
moment  in  which  the  audience  hopes  that  the  disaster 
is  averted.  Helmer,  over j  oyed,  exclaims,  "  I  am  saved," 
and  assures  Nora  that  he  forgives  her.  But  at  the 
sound  of  that  word  "  forgive  "  Nora  realizes  as  never 
before  how  totally  and  hopelessly  they  are  missing 
each  other's  mental  track.  Finally  she  unties  the  knot 
of  the  plot  by  taking  her  life  into  her  own  hands  and 
departing.  It  is  by  far  the  greatest  denouement  in 
modern   drama. 

The  Subtler  Devices 

Having  examined  the  structure  or  building  of  this 
play,  we  now  turn  to  those  technical  qualities,  the  ob- 
servation of  which  is  so  interesting,  and  the  intelligent 
appreciation  of  which  adds  so  much  to  the  pleasure 
of  playgoing. 

First,  the  transitions  are  made  smoothly,  so  as  to 
carry  conviction.  I'hink  what  the  situation  was  at 
first,  and  then  what  it  is  at  the  end.  We  begin  on 
Christmas  eve  with  —  not  a  happy  family  in  a  real 
home  —  but  a  merry  family  in  a  doll's  house.  In  fact, 
the  family  is  rather  merrier  than  it  has  been  for  a  long 
time,  having  just  come  in  for  a  piece  of  good  fortune. 
But  in  three  days  all  is  changed.  Dire  disaster  has 
befallen,  and  the  home  is  broken  up.  To  accomplish 
so  much  in  three  scenes  with  any  appearance  of  prob- 


TO  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

ability,  any  smoothness  in  the  succession  of  events,  is 
not  easy. 

In  viewing  the  stage  presentation  of  a  great  play, 
it  is  interesting  to  notice  also  with  what  measure  of 
success  the  actors  solve  their  difficult  problem,  that 
of  shading  their  parts  and  making  them  fluent,  so  that 
one  mood  merges  naturally  and  imperceptibly  into 
another.  Obviously  they  can  work  to  good  advantage 
only  when  the  playwright  has  moved  skillfully  from 
point  to  point,  keeping  the  stage  and  the  actor  con- 
stantly in  mind.  The  shading  of  Nora's  part  in  this 
play  is  an  invigorating  trial  of  skill  for  the  greatest 
actresses,  difficult  but  not  impossible  to  accomplish. 

Then  there  is  dramatic  irony,  that  technical  ex- 
pedient which  is  as  old  as  the  drama  itself.  Ironic 
speeches,  it  will  be  remembered,  are  those  which  have 
one  meaning  on  the  stage,  and  another,  perhaps  deeper 
and  more  significant,  to  the  audience.  In  this  play  we 
discover  some  of  the  finest  irony  in  all  dramatic 
literature. 

In  the  second  act,  Helmer  says  to  Nora,  "  Are  you 
trying  on  your  dress  ?  " 

It  is  the  masquerade  costume ;  and  Nora  replies,  with 
bitter  meaning,  "  Yes,  yes,  I  am  trying  it  on.  It  suits 
me  so  well,  Torvald." 

Then  a  little  later,  Helmer  says,  "  Nora,  you  're 
dancing  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

Nora.    So  it  is. 

But  perhaps  the  most  tragic  irony  of  all  is  in 
Helmer's  speech  in  the  third  act,  just  before  the  reve- 
lation. "  Do  you  know,  Nora,  I  often  wish  some  dan- 
ger might  threaten  you,  that  I  might  risk  body  and 
soul,  and  everything,  everything,  for  your  dear  sake." 

To  the  audience,  with  its  knowledge  of  Nora's  ter- 


ANALYSIS  OF  "A  DOLL'S  HOUSE"   71 

ror  and  danger,  this  speech  comes  across  with  mighty 
force. 

The  most  marvelous  and  thrilling  achievement  of  all 
in  great  drama  is  the  pressure  as  the  climax  approaches, 
and  often  from  that  on  to  the  close  of  the  play.  When 
the  ending  is  tragic,  the  pressure  sometimes  becomes 
so  powerful  as  to  be  almost  unbearable.  But  always 
when  this  driving  force  makes  itself  felt,  the  speeches 
begin  to  come  inevitably,  quite  of  themselves,  so  that 
it  seems  as  if  anybody  might  write  that  part  of  the 
play,  granted  the  foregoing  scenes. 

In  "  A  Doll's  House,"  the  whole  work  appears  to  be 
constructed  for  the  benefit  of  the  closing  speeches,  so 
that  they  may  be  simple,  natural,  unforced,  yet  great 
in  import. 

Twelve  years  after  the  opening  night,  Ibsen  himself 
testified,  "  I  may  almost  say  that  it  was  for  the  sake 
of  the  last  scene  that  the  whole  play  was  written." 

Only  a  few  of  the  lines  can  be  quoted. 

Helmer.  I  would  gladly  Avork  for  you  day  and  night ; 
bear  sorrow  and  want  for  your  sake.  But  no  man 
sacrifices  his  honor,  even  for  one  he  loves. 

Nora.    INIillions  of  women  have  done  so.   .  .   . 

Helmer.     I  have  loved  you  more  than  all  the  world. 

Nora.  You  have  never  loved  me.  You  only  thought 
it  amusing  to  be  in  love  with  me. 

The  whole  play  drives  Nora's  speeches  home.  These 
lines  never  fail  to  startle  an  audience.  There  is  no 
time  to  think  in  the  theater,  but  the  words  are  always 
carried  away  to  be  pondered  indefinitely. 

Greater  Pleasure  in  Playgoing 

Thus  we  begin  to  sec  what  drama  can  do  for  us,  if 
we  meet  it  half  way.     It  can  give  us  a  sharp  sense  of 


72  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

life,  make  us  forget  ourselves,  kindle  our  imagination, 
and  expand  our  whole  being  in  response  to  the  greatness 
of  its  art. 

We  may  be  enthusiastic  over  great  plays  without 
knowledge  of  technique.  But  understanding  technical 
points  and  all  the  subtle  ways  by  means  of  which  the 
dramatist  triumphs  over  the  thousand  and  one  diffi- 
culties which  beset  him,  we  may  be  even  more  enthusi- 
astic; and  enthusiasm,  to  return  to  our  opening  chap- 
ter, is  a  wonderfully  recreating  emotion. 

It  is  to  make  possible  some  degree  of  mental  and 
spiritual  refreshment  in  the  theater  that  the  study  of 
the  art  of  play-building  should  always  tend. 


vn 

THE    CATASTROPHIC    PLAY 

Illustrated  hy  Ibseri's  "  A  DolVs  House  " 

THIS  term  has  a  portentous  and  forbidding  sound, 
and  one  is  prompted  at  the  outset  to  dis- 
claim all  responsibility  for  inventing  it.  But 
it  seems  to  be  well  established  in  the  literature  of 
dramatic  criticism  and  has  become  too  insistent  to  be 
ignored. 

In  approaching  the  drama  of  catastrophe  it  is  neces- 
sary to  turn  back  to  a  period  about  thirty  years  ago. 
At  that  time  life  was  expressing  itself  but  feebly  and 
imperfectly  in  dramatic  form.  The  old  romantic 
methods  seemed  to  have  worn  tliemselves  out.  The  life 
of  the  day  had  become  too  complex  and  introspective 
to  formulate  itself  in  plays  of  the  then  existing  schools. 
Prose  fiction  evidently  served  its  pui'pose  better,  and 
the  consequence  was  that  for  a  generation  the  varied 
complications  and  developments  of  modern  life  stored 
themselves  away  in  the  novel.  We  arc  still  too  near 
the  period  to  realize  how  rich  the  treasure-house  is ; 
but  it  ill  becomes  us,  even  in  the  present  stinmlation  of 
interest  in  what  seems  almost  a  new  birth  of  the  play,  to 
belittle  or  cheapen  the  admirable  schools  of  prose  fic- 
tion that  grew  up  in  the  latter  days  of  last  century, 
not  merely  in  Europe,  but,  we  should  be  proud  to  add, 
in  our  own  country. 


74  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

It  is  unfortunate,  however,  that  the  modern  world 
did  not  express  itself  more  fully.  It  is  good  for  life 
to  pour  itself  abundantly  into  all  the  forms  of  all  the 
arts,  for  honest  art  never  fails  to  react  in  the  whole- 
somest  way  upon  life  out  of  which  it  springs,  and  upon 
human  nature  from  which  alone  it  can  obtain  its  ma- 
terial. So  when  the  realists  —  for  to  them  should  be 
given  the  credit  —  achieved  a  dramatic  form  that  com- 
mended itself  even  to  those  who  thought  most  inde- 
pendently, and  felt  most  vehemently,  and  insisted  most 
strenuously  upon  the  scientific  view  of  life,  there  was 
at  least  one  point  gained;    the  drama  began  to  revive. 

The  Old  Form  and  the  New 

The  new  play  was  of  course  built  upon  the  old ;  for 
absolute  beginnings  and  endings  are  as  rare  in  art  as 
they  are  in  life.  The  difference  was  merely  in  the  way 
of  remodeling  and  recasting  the  dramatic  material. 
,The  simplest  kind  of  imaginary  plot  will  serve  as  well 
for  illustration  as  an  intricate  play,  and  will  take  up 
less  space.  Suppose,  for  example,  that  the  material  is 
something  like  this:  A  boy  runs  away  from  school, 
goes  to  the  circus,  returns  home,  and  is  punished.  The 
old  method  of  making  a  play  out  of  such  a  story  would 
be  to  construct  five  acts  as  follows: 

ACT  I.  —  The  boy  starts  for  school.  On  the  way  he 
passes  a  circus.  He  is  tempted  (other  dramatis 
personw  being  involved)  to  abandon  school  for  the 
sake  of  seeing  the  show. 

ACT  II.  —  A  prolonged  and  eventful  struggle  with 
temptation  ensues. 

ACT    III.  —  The  boy  finally  yields,  and  squanders  his 


THE    CATASTROPHIC    PLAY  75 

only  quarter  to  see  the  circus,  which  is  introduced 
directly,  and  is  most  elaborately  and  extravagantly 
staged. 

ACT  IV.  —  The  boy  returns  home  and  practices  many 
deceptions  and  intrigues  to  persuade  everybody 
that  he  went  directl}^  to  school,  and  did  n't  know 
there  was  a  circus  in  town. 

ACT  V.  —  His  guilt  is  discovered,  and  he  is  repri- 
manded and  punished.  The  play  comes  to  a  touch- 
ing and  pathetic  close,  which  involves  some  inno- 
cent character  in  the  misery  of  retribution. 

Nothing  in  the  world  was  ever  more  highly  ethical 
and  instructive  than  the  catastrophe  of  the  old  romantic 
play.  But  somehow  or  other  the  deepest  impression, 
and  the  one  that  persisted  longest  in  the  minds  of  the 
audience,  was  not  the  pathos  of  repentance  and  punish- 
ment at  the  close,  but  the  glare  and  glitter  and  fascina- 
tion of  the  circus. 

The  time  of  action  of  such  a  play  would  be  pro- 
longed, if  possible,  by  intervals  between  the  acts,  and 
there  would  be  five  or  more  costly  and  elaborate  stage 
settings.  The  line  of  action  would  be  the  familiar 
pyramidal  diagram,  with  a  slant  up  to  the  climax  and 
then  a  slant  down  to  the  end. 

Now  the  drama  of  catastrophe  takes  the  same  ma- 
terial and  recasts  it  into  another  shape,  so  as  to  leave 
a  diflfercnt  impression  upon  the  minds  of  the  audience. 
When  the  curtain  rises  the  circus  is  over.  In  most  plays 
of  this  kind  some  time  has  elapsed  since  there  was  any 
circus.  IVIorcover,  at  the  beginning  of  the  play  nothing 
has  been  found  out  about  the  boy's  eventful  experience. 
Three,  or  at  most  four,  acts  are  then  constructed,  as 
follows: 


76  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

ACT  I.  —  Exposition  enough  to  make  the  present  situ- 
ation intelhgible.  No  reference  at  first  to  the  far 
beginnings  of  the  action.  But  the  boy  is  evidently 
conceahng  something,  and  there  are  hints  of  im- 
pending calamity. 

ACT  II.  —  Threatened  discovery,  deception,  remorse, 
great  distress  of  mind. 

ACT  III.  —  It  comes  to  light  that  the  boy  did  run 
away  from  school  and  go  to  the  circus.  This  reve- 
lation, which  obviously  is  not  action,  but  the  remi- 
niscence of  a  previous  action,  forms  the  climax  of 
the  play.  The  circus,  which  is  introduced  by 
indirection,  has  become  a  tragic  memory,  greatly 
embittered,  to  the  former  spectators. 

ACT  IV.  —  Awful  retribution  and  dire  catastrophe. 
(The  ending  is  so  depressing  that  there  is  no  need 
of  pointing  any  moral  at  all. 

The  time  of  action  of  such  a  play  can  be  shortened 
to  a  day,  or  even  less,  and  one  stage  setting  can  be 
made  to  serve  from  beginning  to  end.  The  line  of  action 
is  a  steep  downward  slant.  The  play  is  merely  an 
elaboration  of  the  catastrophe  following  upon  some 
previous  action  which  is  entirely  outside  the  frame  of 
the  picture.  The  exposition  of  this  action  is  necessarily 
distributed  throughout  the  play.  Indeed,  in  one  sense, 
the  exposition  makes  the  play. 

This,  in  brief  and  rather  trivial  illustration,  is  the 
difference  between  the  earlier  construction  and  the  later. 


The  New  "  Drama  of  Catastrophe  " 

Now  no  play  of  Ibsen's  (unless  perhaps  "  Rosmers- 
holm "   be   excepted)    more   completely   illustrates    the 


THE    CATASTROPHIC    PLAY  77 

catastrophic  method  than  "  A  Doll's  House."  At  the 
rising  of  the  curtain  Nora's  forgery,  which  is  the  act 
that  makes  the  play,  is  of  the  past  —  was  in  fact  com- 
mitted eight  years  before.  The  play  concerns  itself 
with  results  merely,  and  comes  to  a  climax  with  the 
discovery  of  what  has  been. 

But  the  new  form,  to  repeat,  grew  out  of  the  old, 
partly  by  way  of  imitation  and  partly  by  way  of  re- 
action. In  "  A  Doll's  House,"  which  is  usually  con- 
sidered the  first  great  drama  of  catastrophe  in  modern 
times,  we  have,  as  it  happens,  excellent  means  of  illus- 
trating both  the  revolt  from  the  earlier  form  and  the 
imitation  of  it. 


The  Revolt  from  Earlier  Forms 

It  will  be  recalled  that  up  to  the  time  of  writing  this 
play,  Ibsen,  as  far  as  dramatic  technique  was  concerned, 
had  been  much  under  the  influence  of  the  French  school. 
During  the  six  years  when  he  was  a  kind  of  stage  mana- 
ger in  Bergen,  more  than  half  of  tlie  one  hundred  and 
forty-five  plays  which  he  assisted  in  producing  were 
from  the  French,  and  most  of  them  of  the  Scribe  school. 
The  most  ardent  admirer  of  Ibsen's  creative  genius  must 
admit  that  it  was  greatly  to  liis  advantage,  as  a  young 
man,  to  be  drilled  and  strengthened  by  practice  such 
as  this.  And  what  he  learned  at  this  period  is  clearly 
manifest  in  the  first  two  acts  (and  part  of  the  third) 
of  "  A  Doll's  House."  For  example,  tlie  long  colUxjuy 
between  Nora  and  Mrs.  Lindeji,  tlie  old  friend  whom 
she  had  not  seen  for  ten  years,  is  exposition  made  in 
the  most  conventional,  even  mechanical,  fashion.  Then, 
as  their  reminiscences  come  to  a  close,  we  have  the  most 
connnonplacc  use  of  an  exclamation  of  happiness  as  a 


78  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

cue  for  the  entrance  of  disaster.  Nora  springs  up  and 
cries,  "  Now  my  troubles  are  over !  Oh,  what  a  wonder- 
ful thing  it  is  to  live  and  be  happy !  "  Just  then  the 
doorbell  rings,  and  enter  Krogstad! 

As  to  Nora's  dance,  that  has  long  been  considered 
almost  too  theatric,  too  much  like  an  operatic  combina- 
tion of  revelry  and  horror.  In  fact,  the  setting  of  the 
whole  piece  is  obviously  contrived  to  produce  a  strong 
antithetical  effect.  The  Chrirtmas  tree,  the  masquerade 
ball  and  the  tarantella  make  a  contrasting  background 
for  Nora's  frenzied  anxiety  and  Rank's  despair.  Noth- 
ing warns  us  that,  in  the  very  midst  of  this  time-honored 
machinery,  there  is  to  be  a  sudden  casting  aside  of  the 
artifices  and  accessories  of  the  French  school.  But 
finally,  last  external  device  of  all,  Nora  takes  off  her 
masquerade  costume  —  her  doll's  dress,  as  she  calls  it. 
When  this  occurs  the  third  and  final  act  of  the  play 
is  more  than  half  over,  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that, 
although  Ibsen  managed  to  avoid  any  conspicuous  break 
in  the  construction  at  this  point,  the  line  of  cleavage  is 
discernible,  nevertheless. 

From  the  moment  when  Nora  says  to  her  husband, 
"  You  and  I  have  much  to  say  to  each  other,"  to  the 
end  of  the  pla}^,  to  the  end,  moreover,  of  all  liis  plays, 
Ibsen's  construction  is  absolutely  his  own,  and  not  an- 
other's. He  uses,  in  brief,  the  new  art  of  giving  to 
psychological  analysis  the  most  absorbing  dramatic  in- 
terest. He  shows  the  innermost  souls  of  his  characters 
in  lightning  flashes,  with  effects  of  such  unexpected  reve- 
lation that  the  audience  is  thrilled  as  by  some  wild  ad- 
venture. He  makes  changes  of  thought  and  feeling 
exciting  and  dramatic,  without  the  help  of  external 
action. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  in  Nora's  final  eye-to- 


THE    CATASTROPHIC    PLAY  79 

eye  talk  with  Helmer  we  mark  most  distinctly  the  be- 
ginning of  a  new  school  of  dramatic  art. 


The  Imitation  of  Earlier  Forms 

It  remains  merely  to  show  what  this  new  method  took 
from  the  old  by  way  of  imitation. 

Most  of  the  plays  of  the  Scribe  school  are  restless 
in  the  constant  play  and  interplay  of  the  action.  Open 
"  The  Ladies'  Battle,"  for  instance,  at  random  and  ob- 
serve how  many  turns  there  are  in  the  course  of  events 
on  any  one  page.  It  is  all  clear  on  the  stage,  but  in 
reading  the  play  it  is  really  fatiguing  to  visualize  the 
rapid  changes  of  adventure  and  to  keep  in  mind  the 
shifting  attitudes  of  the  characters  toward  one  another. 

Now  Ibsen  makes  these  shifts  and  changes  inner  in- 
stead of  outer,  mental  instead  of  physical.  But  his 
characters  are  as  restless  in  their  incessant  spiritual 
changes  as  ever  the  heroes  of  romance  were  in  their 
adventures  and  hair-breadth  escapes.  The  old  method 
had  merely  struck  in,  so  to  speak. 

The  final  scene  between  Nora  and  Helmer  in  "  A 
Doll's  House  "  exactly  illustrates  the  rapid  changes  of 
thought  and  feeling  that  often  so  breathlessly  succeed 
one  another  in  plays  of  the  new  technique.  The  listener 
(one  can  hardly  say  the  spectator)  follows  the  speakers 
at  a  headlong  pace,  and,  if  he  be  not  mentally  very  alert, 
is  in  danger  of  finding  himself,  at  fall  of  the  curtain, 
quite  out  of  the  conversation  altogether. 

The  Spread  of  the  New  Form 

The  drama  of  catastrophe,  then,  employs  its  own 
peculiar  method  of  recasting  the  dramatic  material,  and 


80  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

makes  its  adventures  inner  and  spiritual  instead  of 
external  and  objective. 

Of  the  mighty  spell  that  Ibsen  cast  over  dramatic  art 
everywhere,  nothing  need  be  said  at  the  present  time. 
Illustrations  of  the  spread  of  this  new  form  of  play  will 
at  once  abound  and  multiply  in  every  reader's  mind. 
The  drama  in  France,  Russia,  Germany,  Italy,  Eng- 
land and  America  has,  in  the  last  generation,  felt  the 
might  of  Ibsen's  influence.  There  is  little  danger  of 
overstating  it.  In  sheer  power  of  giving  his  art  an 
impetus  in  a  new  direction,  Ibsen  stands  almost  alone 
among  the  dramatists  of  the  world. 

For  good  or  for  ill,  the  drama  of  catastrophe  in  its 
modern  form  has,  in  the  tliirty  years  since  "  A  Doll's 
House  "  was  written,  made  a  place  for  itself  in  literature. 

Two  Common  Dangers 

In  conclusion,  it  may  be  added  that  there  are  two 
very  common  dangers  into  which  the  catastrophic  play 
is  liable  to  fall. 

Obscurity 

First,  unless  constructed  with  great  skill,  it  is  apt 
to  give  the  audience  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  not 
getting  into  the  plot  as  the  action  unfolds.  The  mod- 
ern audience  is  wonderfully  quick  and  alert,  but  there 
is  a  limit  to  its  mental  agility.  The  dramatist  ought 
always  to  keep  a  wholesome  fear  lest  his  entire  audience, 
young  and  old,  wise  and  simple,  groundlings  and  gal- 
lery, may  not  be  with  him  at  every  step  of  the  way. 
Sophocles,  who  in  the  popular  view  is  Ibsen's  proto- 
type, wrote  his  catastrophic  tragedies  under  favorable 
auspices,  because  the  myths  which  furnished  his  plots 


THE    CATASTROPHIC    PLAY  81 

had  passed  into  the  very  air  of  Greece.  Thus  the 
attention  of  his  great  audiences  was  so  economized  that 
the  edge  of  his  irony  was  never  blunted  nor  his  dramatic 
pressure  weakened.  Even  if  he  had  been  less  scrupu- 
lous than  he  was  in  safeguarding  his  effects  at  every 
turn,  his  most  suspensive  plays  could  never  have  baf- 
fled or  puzzled  the  slowest-witted  spectator. 

But  the  catastrophic  play  of  the  present,  treating 
original  and  inventive  material  with  such  prolonged 
suspense,  often  obscures  the  meaning  of  its  plot  lines, 
and  uses  irony  that  is  not  intelligible  until  its  occasion 
has  been  left  too  far  behind.  Nothing  ever  justifies 
such  overtaxing  of  the  playgoer's  attention ;  for  until 
human  nature  is  miraculously  changed,  it  will  be  reason- 
able to  expect  a  play  to  carry  its  interpretation  with 
it  through  every  phase  of  its  development. 

This  doubtful  kind  of  structure  has  become  so  com- 
mon of  late  that  we  seem  likely  to  fall  into  the  error 
of  regarding  the  play  as  an  enigma  to  be  puzzled  out 
in  advance,  lest  it  may  not  be  intelligible  on  the  stage. 
And,  worse  still,  we  are  in  danger  of  deluding  ourselves 
with  the  fancy  that  this  is  "  study  "  of  dramatic  art. 
When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  A.  attend  a  performance  of  some 
obscurely  retrospective  play,  and  Mrs.  A.  understands 
what  it  is  all  about,  while  Mr.  A.  is  dazed  and  bored, 
that  does  not  necessarily  mean  that  Mrs.  A.  is  more 
{esthetic  or  "  temperamental  "  than  Mr.  A.  Sometimes 
it  merely  indicates  that  Mrs.  A.  has  attacked  the  play 
beforehand,  while  ]\Ir,  A.  has  trusted  to  a  misplaced 
confidence  in  the  self-interpreting  power  of  any  play 
that  is  a  play.  If  INIr.  A.  protests  that  the  reading 
of  a  play  merely  to  get  tlie  facts  in  the  case  is  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  a  botheration,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  he  has  some  reason  on  his  side.     It  is  greatly  to 


82  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

be  feared  that  we  shall  never  arrive  at  any  adequate 
notion  of  what  it  means  to  study  the  wonderful  art  of 
the  drama  so  long  as  we  are  racking  our  brains  over 
dramatic  irony  that  is  liable  to  be  lost  at  the  moment  of 
utterance  unless  it  has  previously  been  explained  and 
diagrammed  like  an  American  joke  for  the  benefit  of  an 
Englishman.  Those  who  know  what  it  is  to  watch  a 
great  play  with  unbounded  enthusiasm  as  it  unfolds 
itself  upon  the  stage,  then  to  read  it  with  absorbing 
delight,  and  then  to  see  it  again  with  greater  delight 
than  ever,  are  safe  not  to  mistake  the  enigmatic  for  the 
profound. 

Weakened  Hold  on  Life 

The  other  danger  is  that  the  modern  drama,  in  its 
imitation  of  the  Ibsenic  structure,  may  lose  sight  of 
the  fundamental  fact  that  drama  is  action.  We  are 
apt  to  say  that  the  play  of  the  day  is  "  life,"  and  we 
are  quite  right  if  by  that  we  mean  that  it  has  in  a 
great  measure  rid  itself  of  perversions,  misrepresenta- 
tions and  sentimentalisms.  But  there  is  a  sense  in 
which  the  retrospective  play  has  almost  ceased  to  be  life 
at  all.  It  has  lost  its  hold  on  the  deed  itself,  on  the 
act  which  effectually  makes  the  plot.  It  merely  looks 
backward  upon  what  once  was  life.  The  characters  sel- 
dom "  have  it  out  "  among  themselves  on  the  stage  be- 
fore the  audience.  Often  they  are  chiefly  occupied  in 
gazing  hopelessly  upon  the  ruins  of  the  past.  The 
glorious  thrill  of  ambition  and  hope  and  love  and  cour- 
age has  died  away.  And  one  result  of  it  all  is  that 
many  of  the  greatest  present-day  plays,  with  their  mor- 
bidity and  negations  and  general  stagnation,  are  mak- 
ing no  appeal  to  the  young.     Now,  when  any  art  takes 


THE    CATASTROPHIC    PLAY  83 

a  form  that  discourages  and  antagonizes  youthful  in- 
terest and  enthusiasm  there  is  sure  to  be  something 
about  it  that  should  give  us  pause.  The  most  hopeful 
view  regards  this  phase  as  passing.  Art  is  long  — 
dramatic  art  especially  —  and  presently  it  will  begin 
again  to  reflect  the  fullness  of  life.  We  were  thankful 
to  see  romanticism  and  mock  heroism  go,  but  we  have 
faith  to  believe  that  romance  and  heroism  are  as  hard 
to  kill  out  of  the  drama  as  out  of  life,  from  which 
the  drama  springs. 

Cure  for  False  Methods 

But  the  popularizing  of  this  Greek  form  in  modern 
drama  has  greatly  helped  to  cure  away  fraudulent  de- 
vices and  tiresome  methods.  With  its  swift  directness 
of  movement,  it  is  so  difficult  for  any  dramatist  to  man- 
age that  it  is  like  a  gymnastic  exercise,  strengthening 
and  corrective.  To  see  this  clearly,  perceiving  at  the 
same  time  that  the  plays  themselves  are  not  a  final 
achievement  in  structure,  is  as  difficult  as  to  get  any 
other  unconfused  view  of  things  dramatic. 


VIII 

THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Illustrated  hy  "  The  Earth  " 
By  James  Bernard  Fagan 

TO  illustrate  certain  developments  in  the  modern 
drama,  this  play  may  be  chosen,  not  as  of  pro- 
found significance  or  perfect  execution,  but  be- 
cause it  is  interesting,  full  of  promise,  and  typical  of 
the  plays  of  the  day,  as  we  see  them  coming  in  on  the 
horizon,  and  of  the  plays  of  the  morrow  as  we  fancy 
they  may  prove  to  be.  The  newer  plays,  of  which  this 
is  a  fair  sample,  involve  a  technique  which  is  as  yet 
imperfectly  worked  out  in  its  modern  form,  or  in  its 
adaptation  to  the  content  of  the  modern  play. 

In  fine,  we  have  here  a  play  with  a  big  enveloping 
interest,  touching  the  world  at  large,  and  inclosing, 
as  a  kind  of  nucleus,  a  plot  whose  interest  is  personal, 
domestic,  and  centered  in  the  private  lives  of  a  few 
characters. 

First  observe  that  the  mere  form  Is  nothing  new;  in 
fact,  until  recent  years,  nearly  all  famous  plays  had  an 
enveloping  interest  which  was  ample,  momentous,  affect- 
ing a  realm,  a  kingdom,  or  a  whole  people.  CEdipus 
was  king  of  Thebes,  Hamlet  prince  of  Denmark,  Maria 
Stuart  claimed  the  throne  of  England,  Hemani  was  a 
rival  of  the  king  of  Spain.  Even  Othello,  whose  tragic 
fate  after  the  opening  act  hangs  upon  personal  issues, 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  85 

makes  his  first  appearance  as  the  hope  of  the  Venetians 
in  their  war  against  the  Turks. 

The  time  of  action  of  these  plays  was  long,  the  scenes 
were  many  and  varied,  the  characters  numerous. 

About  a  generation  ago,  Ibsen  created  "  A  Doll's 
House,"  which  will  doubtless  be,  to  the  end  of  time, 
the  typical  sex-problem  play.  Moreover,  it  proved  an 
epoch-making  play,  the  forerunner  of  a  long  line  of 
problematic  dramas.  Such  plays  did  not  and  often 
could  not  involve  large  social  interests  and  affairs  of 
state,  or  directly  affect  anybody  except  the  personce 
immediately  concerned.  But  they  sprung  up  all  over 
Europe,  surprisingly  similar  in  theme,  dealing  over 
and  over  again  with  the  same  problems  in  the  relation 
of  the  sexes.  Sudermann  was  at  work  in  Germany, 
Echegaray  in  Spain,  D'Annunzio  in  Italy,  dramatists 
without  number  in  France,  Pinero,  Jones  and  Shaw  in 
England.  For  thirty  or  forty  years  these  plays  were 
produced  almost  exclusively. 

We  say  we  are  tired  of  the  theme  and  of  the  plays. 
Nor  is  it  yet  wholly  apparent  what  their  intellectual 
trend  and  moral  bearing  is  likely  to  be.  But  it  is 
perfectly  clear  that  silent  forces,  not  to  be  lightly  esti- 
mated, were  at  work  to  hold  the  modern  play  for  so  long 
a  time  to  one  kind  of  plot  and  action. 

Another  thing  is  clear.  During  the  thirty  or  forty 
years  in  which  Europe  produced  such  plays  abundantly 
and  almost  exclusively,  a  wonderful  dramatic  technique 
was  perfected.  These  dramas,  involving  in  their  very 
nature  few  characters,  centering  themselves  inevitably 
in  the  home,  working  out  again  and  again  the  fortunes 
and  misfortunes  of  tlie  domestic  triangle,  favored  and 
made  possible  an  ingenuity,  adroitness  and  economy 
of  ways  and  means  that  had  never  before  been  possible. 


86  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

The  soliloquy  began  to  disappear;  likewise  the  aside; 
likewise  the  superfluous  and  semi-detached  characters 
who  used  to  wander  aimlessly  about  the  stage ;  likewise 
the  often  unnecessary  mass  scene  or  stage  crowd;  like- 
wise many  other  clumsy  devices. 

The  old  modes  and  fashions,  which,  if  they  are  not 
really  clumsy,  are  often  unnecessary  on  the  modern 
enclosed  and  brilliantly  lighted  stage,  not  only  began 
to  disappear  thirty  odd  years  ago,  and  kept  on  dis- 
appearing, but  they  seem  to  be  gone  never  to  return. 

It  is  inconceivable  that  they  are  likely  ever  to  be 
used  again.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  inconceivable 
that  plays  should  keep  on  forever  being  so  small 
and  so  centered.  Certainly,  in  our  age,  that  can- 
not be  expected.  Ours  is  a  time  of  social  awakening, 
and  since  drama  is  above  all  else  a  contemporary  art, 
reflecting  the  life  of  its  time,  spreading  new  ideas,  and 
quickening  all  currents  of  thought,  the  play  of  our  day 
must  of  necessity  cease  to  be  wholly  personal  and  indi- 
vidualistic. It  must  be  truly  social,  involving  the 
causes  that  people  are  struggling  for  and  giving  their 
lives  for  in  this  wonderful  present  in  which  we  live. 
Otherwise  it  will  become  wholly  eff'ete  and  ineffectual 
as  a  mode  of  expressing  the  life  of  its  time. 

The  difficult  question  is,  how  the  play  of  the  present, 
and  of  the  immediate  future  as  it  is  foreshadowed, 
can  have  the  social  consciousness  and  at  the  same  time 
preserve  the  exquisite  technique  so  carefully  worked  out 
in  the  domestic  drama,  and  how  it  can  adapt  itself  and 
its  ample  themes  to  the  small  stage,  the  proscenium 
arch  and  the  modern  theater  in  general. 

The  play  which  comes  bravely  to  the  grapple  with 
plots  that  grow  out  of  strikes,  or  labor  unions  and 
leagues,  or  municipal  corruption,  or  frenzied  finance, 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  87 

or  prison  reform,  or  immigration  laws,  or  the  rule  of 
the  political  boss,  or  the  press  versus  the  public,  is  from 
the  outset  at  a  disadvantage  theatrically,  not  to  say 
dramatically.  For  example,  the  mechanics  of  business 
life  is  too  complicated  and  obscure  to  be  worked  out  on 
the  stage  and  made  visible  to  an  audience  in  every  part 
of  the  house.  For  another  example,  political  wire-pull- 
ing, however  exciting  it  may  be  in  life,  is  so  underhand 
and  deliberate  as  not  easily  to  be  forced  to  a  crisis  in 
the  two  hours'  traffic  of  the  stage. 

The  question  of  how  vast  interests  and  minutely  fin- 
ished technique  can  be  reconciled  is  not  yet  answered ; 
but  the  problem  is  in  process  of  solution.  Such  plays 
as  those  of  Mr.  Galsworthy,  Mr.  Granville  Barker,  Mr. 
Patterson,  Mr.  Sheldon  and  others  are  full  of  timely 
interest,  and  on  the  whole  the  most  stimulating  and  ab- 
sorbing drama  on  the  stage. 

Mr.  George  Tyler,  who  has  produced  two  hundred 
plays  in  twenty-five  years,  many  of  them,  like  "  The 
Melting  Pot "  and  "  The  Fourth  Estate,"  ventures 
worth  making,  says,  "  There  arc  so  many  vital  issues 
in  America  which  tlie  drama  can  treat,  and  this  country 
of  ours  is  such  a  great  seething  mining-camp,  that  it 
is  hard  to  say  no  to  any  interesting  experiment." 

To  be  perfectly  honest  in  our  estimate,  we  must 
admit  that  these  plays  have  not  as  yet  quite  arrived 
or  achieved  technically.  Perhaps  the  dramatists  of  the 
day  and  the  morrow,  obsessed  by  their  tremendous 
themes,  and  having  a  coming-on  disposition,  underrate 
the  difficulties  that  confront  them.  At  all  events,  they 
have  not  quite  passed  the  experimental  stage.  In  the 
inevitable  passing  of  the  old  and  the  welcome  advent 
of  the  new  somctliing  has  been  lost.  Their  phiys  de- 
scribe or  narrate,  where  tliey  ouglit  to  act.     They  are 


88  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


full  of  sayings  instead  of  doings.  That  does  not  dull 
our  interest  in  them:  stimulates  it  rather.  Most  of 
us  would  go  further  and  more  cheerfully  any  night  to 
see  a  play  of  big  endeavor  than  to  see  the  most  perfect 
sex-problem  play  ever  made.  But  we  often  realize,  in 
the  midst  of  our  enthusiasm,  that  technically  the  work 
is  far  below  that  of  "  The  Great  Galeoto,"  or  "  Magda," 
or  "  The  Thief." 

Now  these  reflections  upon  present  issues  must  be 
good  plays,  addressed  to  the  eye  as  well  as  to  the  ear; 
otherwise  they  might  better  call  themselves  metaphysics, 
or  political  economy,  or  moral  philosophy,  and  keep  off  of 
the  stage  altogether.  They  cannot  continue  to  be  merely 
promising,  no  matter  how  interesting  the  promise  is. 

In  all  plays  with  an  enveloping  interest  the  outer 
and  the  inner  plots  must  be  closely  interwoven,  so  that 
there  is  constant  action  and  reaction  between  them 
at  all  critical  points.  When  this  is  adroitly  accom- 
plished, two  effects  are  gained:  the  inner  plot  —  the 
tense  personal  interest  —  vitalizes  the  outer  plot,  holds 
it  down  to  earth,  and  makes  it  dramatic;  which  ab- 
stractions and  sociological  speculations  never  are. 

The  outer  plot  or  setting  broadens  and  deepens  and 
in  every  way  expands  the  play,  making  the  inner,  cen- 
tered, domestic  plot  less  stereotyped,  less  hackneyed  and 
commonplace,  causing  the  incidents  to  take  on  new 
meaning  and  strengthening  the  dramatic  pressure 
toward  the  end. 

The  Play  of  the  Day  Illustrated 

Such  construction  is  exemplified  in  Mr.  Pagan's 
play,  "The  Earth." 

The  hero  is  neither  a  man  nor  an  idea,  but  a  great 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  89 

London  newspaper.  The  outermost  setting  or  interest 
of  all,  the  enveloping  plot  that  takes  hold  on  the  life 
of  the  time,  is  the  relation  between  the  daily  press  and 
the  public.  Inside  of  this  there  is  a  closer  setting 
which  is  jet  not  quite  the  nucleus  of  the  plot  —  a  con- 
flict between  Trevena,  the  cabinet  minister  who  is  work- 
ing to  get  a  Wages  Bill  into  Parliament,  and  Janion, 
editor  of  The  Earth,  who  is  working  through  his 
papers  to  smash  the  bill  before  it  comes  to  its  first 
reading.  Then  at  the  center  is  one  of  the  eternal  trios 
or  triangles  —  the  unhappy  wife,  the  lover,  and  the 
man  who,  having  by  chance  discovered  their  relations, 
has  them  in  his  power.  In  this  case  the  lover  is  the 
cabinet  minister,  and  the  man  who  holds  the  power  is 
the  editor. 

These,  then,  are  the  three  circles  or  concentric  rings 
of  plot:  the  press  and  the  public  conflict;  the  editor 
and  the  cabinet  minister  conflict  over  the  Wages  Bill; 
and  the  love-story;  conflict,  endangering  Lady  Kitty's 
reputation. 

In  order  to  make  a  play  that  is  stagcable  and  actable, 
these  lines  must  somehow  meet  and  intertwine  at  all 
critical  points ;  for  the  personal  and  domestic  phase 
of  the  plot  comes  perilously  near  being  worn  out  and 
vacuous. 

It  is  a  pertinent  question,  why  the  old  outmoded 
partie  trois  at  all?  If  the  author  wished  to  stage  a 
member  of  parliament  and  an  editor  fighting  over  a 
Wages  Bill,  why  not  make  their  conflict  the  sole  motive 
of  the  play?  With  the  minor  characters  and  issues 
naturally  involved,  it  would  be  interesting  and  exciting 
enough,  surely. 

It  is  too  much  to  say  that  this  cannot  be  done;  but 
one  suspects  that  it  is  impossible,  because  it  never  has 


90  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

been  done.  No  matter  what  the  meaning  or  intent  of  a 
play,  no  matter  how  absorbing  and  vital  its  thesis  —  if 
it  has  a  thesis  —  it  must  somehow  be  held  down  to  earth 
and  fitted  to  the  stage ;  and  the  stage  is,  after  all,  a  very 
small  place. 

In  this  instance,  what  fixes  and  concentrates  the  at- 
tention of  the  audience  upon  the  press  and  public  con- 
flict is  its  bearing  upon  the  intrigue  between  Trevena 
and  Lady  Killone.  And  what  saves  the  intrigue  from 
being  utterly  commonplace  is  Lady  Killone's  defiance 
of  Janion  near  the  close  of  the  play,  in  a  speech  which 
marks  her  plainly  as  a  woman  of  affairs  in  the  best 
and  most  modern  sense. 

Again  following  the  suggestion  in  chapter  first,  a 
study  of  this  play  is  begun  by  giving  events  from  their 
far  beginning,  in  chronological  order,  and  in  story 
form. 


The  "Story"  of  "The  Earth" 

Fifty  years  before  the  play  opens,  Felix  Jansen  was 
born  in  New  York  City.  His  father  was  German,  his 
mother  was  Scotch.  This,  according  to  Lady  Susan  of 
the  play,  is  "  a  good  grasping  blend."  When  he  was 
a  child  his  people  migrated  to  Canada.  At  seventeen 
he  founded  a  newspaper  in  a  backwoods  town.  Later 
he  went  to  Montreal,  where  he  ran  two  evening  papers 
of  opposite  politics,  which  went  for  each  other  so  vio- 
lently that  soon  everybody  in  the  place  was  buying  one 
or  the  other  —  or  perhaps  both  —  in  order  to  get  at 
the  real  truth! 

When  Jansen  was  about  thirty,  he  removed  to  Lon- 
don, and  soon  worked  up  to  a  position  of  responsi- 
bility on  one  of  the  London  dailies.    Under  him  on  the 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  91 

paper  was  a  younger  man  by  the  name  of  Trevena,  a 
Cornishman,  very  different  from  Jansen  —  a  man  of 
winning  personality,  fine  looking,  influential,  popular, 
capable  of  high  enthusiasms,  with  a  Celtic  lyrical  strain 
in  his  nature  that  made  him  something  of  a  dreamer. 

Seven  years  before  the  play  opens,  Janion  (he  had 
by  then  changed  his  name)  founded  or  got  control  of 
a  morning  paper  called  The  Earth,  and  ran  it  on  the 
principle  of  making  things  happen,  seeing  importance 
into  them,  without  regard  for  facts.  He  put  it  in  this 
way: 

"Before  I  went  into  journalism,  wives  used  to  ask 
over  the  breakfast  table,  *  Anything  in  the  paper, 
dear?'  and  the  husband  invariably  replied,  'Nothing, 
darling.'  Well,  I  changed  all  that.  If  any  man  says 
that  with  one  of  my  papers  in  front  of  him,  he  's  a 
liar ;    if  he  is  n't,  my  editor  's  a  fool." 

On  another  occasion,  storming  at  the  report  of  a 
special  correspondent,  he  cried: 

"  There  's  no  color,  no  details,  no  imagination.  He  's 
got  to  make  you  see  this  accident  —  sling  his  news  at 
you  in  spasms  —  hurl  it  at  you  in  raw  chunks  of  bleed- 
ing humanity.  If  he  can't,  let  him  go  and  grow  flowers 
somewhere  —  wc  've  no  use  for  him.  Wlien  people  open 
their  papers  in  the  morning,  let  them  think  the  world  's 
upside  down.  Take  their  breath  away  —  hit  them  in 
the  eye,  bang,  every  day.  They  like  it  —  it 's  a  tonic. 
It  makes  them  think  they  are  jolly  lucky  they  're 
alive." 

The  circulation  of  this  paper  reached  2,000,000. 
As  Trevena  said,  "  It  's  a  rag;  but  tliat  rag  is  on  every 
bush  in  England." 

Four  years  before  the  play  opens,  Janion  off'cred  a 
prize  for  the  best  forecast  of  the  coming  cabinet,  and 


92  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

canvassed  the  readers  of  The  Earth.  Trevena  got 
many  votes.  Janion  then  pushed  him,  paragraphed 
him,  wrote  leaders  about  him,  and  when  the  cabinet  was 
formed  Trevena  "  got  there."  As  Lady  Kitty  said, 
he  was  Hke  a  patent  pill,  swept  to  success  on  a  flood  of 
advertisement. 

To  look  backward  for  a  moment:  Some  years  before 
Janion  founded  his  paper  a  very  beautiful  but  penni- 
less young  Irish  girl,  the  Lady  Kitty  of  the  play,  mar- 
ried a  worthless  Irish  baronet  —  or  was  married  to 
him  by  her  match-making  mother.  "  You  brought 
me,"  Lord  Killone  once  remarked,  "  the  biggest  dowry 
of  Irish  pride  that  ever  came  into  the  market;  but  we 
can't  live  on  it " ;  and  again,  "  Strikes  me  most  of  us 
get  married  when  we  're  too  young  to  know  the  value  of 
money." 

As  for  Killone,  a  hint  of  what  he  was  may  be  gained 
from  an  exclamation  wning  from  Janion's  secretary 
—  who,  like  most  private  secretaries,  had  learned  to 
refrain  from  comment :  "  How  could  Lady  Kitty  have 
married  that  —  " 

Speaking  for  herself,  Lady  Kitty  says,  as  the  denoue- 
ment  is  drawing  on,  "  My  friendship  with  Mr.  Trevena 
has  been  the  one  good  thing  in  my  life  —  yes,  in  spite 
of  all,  the  only  thing  that  made  me  feel  I  was  of  any 
use  in  the  world  —  a  decent  member  of  society.  That 
sounds  odd,  but  it 's  true  —  one  of  the  strange  per- 
verse truths  that  stupid  people  cannot  see." 

She  was  desperately  unhappy,  but  being  a  brilliant 
woman,  was  not  entirely  without  resources  in  herself. 
She  joined  the  Woman's  Political  Union;  and  when 
she  appears  in  the  play  we  find  that  she  is  on  a  com- 
mittee to  promote  a  Wages  Bill  to  put  an  end  to 
the  sweating  of  women  and  children  in  the  shops.     She 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  93 

is  not,  like  Chantecler's  pheasant  hen,  a  foe  to  the 
Idea;    and  she  develops  a  social  conscience. 

In  the  course  of  her  committee  work  she  makes  the 
acquaintance  of  Trevena,  who  is  to  bring  the  bill  into 
parliament;  and  each  is  attracted  by  what  is  best 
in  the  other. 

Then  comes  about  what  appears  a  commonplace 
liaison.  Lord  and  Lady  Killone  see  less  and  less  of 
each  other.  Trevena  maintains  an  apartment  in  Lon- 
don occupied  by  an  old  housekeeper,  a  family  pen- 
sioner; and  he  and  Lady  Kitty  spend  part  of  their 
time  there.  The  author's  endeavor  is  to  make  it  out 
something  a  little  more  interesting  than  the  ordinary 
story  of  affinity. 

By  this  time  Janion  is  in  control  of  eighty  news- 
papers in  England  —  two-thirds  of  all  the  papers  in 
the  country.  Sixty  of  these  are  unimportant,  but  by 
means  of  the  otliers  he  has  Janionized  the  public  press 
and  opinion.  Though  he  poses  as  an  enemy  of  trusts, 
he  has  formed  the  most  pernicious  and  dangerous  kind 
of  trust  —  a  trust  of  ideas.  He  proclaims  the  freedom 
of  the  press,  and  yet  by  means  of  his  three  principal 
papers  he  has  cornered  the  voice  of  public  opinion. 

Janion  is  fighting  the  Wages  Bill.  He  calls  it  an  ill- 
digested  piece  of  legislative  lunacy,  and  has  condemned 
it  before  it  is  presented  to  parliament.  For  a  month 
he  has  staked  his  reputation  that  the  bill  will  never 
see  its  first  reading.  It  must  be  smashed,  or  his  repu- 
tation will  be  smashed. 

We  come  now  to  the  opening  of  the  play.  With 
a  view  to  finding  out  how  the  government  is  taking 
the  newspaper  campaign  against  the  Wages  Bill,  Janion 
has  invited  Trevena  to  visit  at  Arrowlclgh  Court.  It 
happens  rather  too  coincidentally  that  Lord  Killone  is 


94  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

there  also  on  a  wind-raising  expedition,  and  that  he  has 
brought  Lady  Kitty  with  him.  By  chance  Janion  dis- 
covers the  relation  between  Trevena  and  Lady  Kitty, 
and  so  gains  the  whip  hand  over  them.  This  is  the 
exciting  force. 

Among  the  characters  not  already  mentioned  are: 
Dickson,  Janion's  managing  director,  a  man  of  the 
same  stamp  as  his  chief;  Morrish,  editor  of  The  Earth, 
a  man  of  refinement,  who  relucts  from  much  of  the 
work  thrust  upon  him;  and  Lady  Susan  Sturrage, 
society  scavenger  for  Janion's  papers. 

What  is  a  "  Talky  "  Play? 

Before  considering  structural  points,  it  may  be  said 
that  this  play  is  often  stigmatized  as  "  talky."  We 
are  apt  to  make  such  criticism  of  any  play  in  which 
there  is  little  obvious  or  external  action.  But  it  is 
evident  to  any  one  who  watches  the  stage  carefully  that 
this  does  not  describe  the  talky  play.  For  example,  the 
closing  scene  of  "  A  Doll's  House,"  in  which  Nora  and 
Helmer  are  in  colloquy  alonei  Never  was  there  a  scene 
in  any  play  which  presented  so  little  action  in  the 
literal  sense.  The  two  figures  on  the  stage  keep  almost 
perfectly  quiet  through  it  all.  At  one  point  Helmer 
starts  to  rise  from  his  chair,  but  Nora  bids  him  be 
seated  again.     Aside  from  that  there  is  no  movement. 

Now  nobody  was  ever  known  to  call  that  prolonged 
scene  talky.  It  is  as  tensely  dramatic  as  the  ghost 
scene  in  Hamlet  or  the  smothering  scene  in  Othello. 
The  audience  sits  absorbed,  enthralled,  spellbound. 

But  it  will  be  remembered  that  every  speech  works 
directly  and  powerfully  upon  the  emotions  of  the  audi- 
ence.    The  scene  is  not  a  stage  conversation.     There 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  95 

is  nothing  literary  about  it.  It  is  as  far  as  possible 
from  being  brilliant,  or  even  quotable.  It  comes  from 
the  heart  of  the  characters  on  the  stage,  and  appeals 
to  the  heart  of  the  audience,  every  word  of  it  power- 
fully backed  by  all  that  has  gone  before  in  the  play. 

Thus  we  begin,  as  Henry  James  would  say,  to  strike 
a  light  in  regard  to  the  talky  play.  A  play  which 
converses,  however  brilliantly  or  wittily,  addressing  its 
conversation  to  the  minds  of  the  audience,  is  talky; 
and  everybody  on  the  stage  and  in  the  audience  knows 
that  there  is  something  seriously  wrong  with  it,  though 
they  may  not  be  clear  as  to  exactly  what  the  trouble 
is.  The  audience  grows  restless.  The  actors  —  here 
is  an  interesting  point  —  are  apt  to  try  to  put  life  and 
mettle  into  the  scenes  by  moving  about.  This  is  an 
utterly  hopeless  attempt,  because,  if  a  speech  is  coldly 
brilliant  and  conversational,  nobody  can  make  it  dra- 
matic by  bustling  up  and  down  the  stage,  or  walking 
about,  or  rising  from  one  chair  only  to  be  seated  in 
another  for  no  ostensible  reason. 

Henry  Miller  relates  that  Boucicault  once  criticised 
him  for  crossing  the  stage  during  a  long  speech  in  one 
of  the  Irish  dramatist's  plays. 

"  Why  did  you  make  that  cross?  "  Boucicault  asked. 

"  To  create  a  sense  of  action,"  replied  Mr.  Miller. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  said  Boucicault.  "  If 
I  cannot  interest  the  audience  with  my  pen,  you  cannot 
interest  them  with  your  feet." 

Whenever  we  are  conscious  of  an  aimless,  futile 
moving  about  on  the  stage  —  and  we  see  it  too  often 
—  it  is  interesting  to  give  special  attention  to  the 
colloquy,  observing  whether  it  is  not  deteriorating  into 
conversation,  and  for  that  reason  making  the  actors 
restless. 


96  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

This  play,  in  the  opening  scene  of  its  second  act, 
where  Janion  and  Trevena  hold  forth  at  great  length 
upon  politics  and  the  press,  may  fairly  be  called  talky ; 
for  the  speeches  are  addressed  to  the  mind  and  not  the 
heart,  and  no  amount  of  walking  about  can  put  feeling 
into  them.  But  even  this  long  colloquy  was  popular  in 
England,  where  political  discussions  are  so  common  in 
society  that  they  are  tolerated  when  society  is  repre- 
sented on  the  stage. 


Building  the  Play 

Coming  now  to  the  play,  we  observe  that  the  action 
is  dated  neither  in  the  past  nor  in  the  present,  but  in 
the  future  —  tomorrow.  This  takes  it  at  once  into  the 
realm  of  conjecture,  where  the  author  can  be  as  specu- 
lative and  hyperbolical  as  he  chooses.  The  work  bor- 
ders too  closely  upon  the  preposterous  to  be  called  high 
comedy;  nor  on  the  other  hand  can  it  fairly  be  called 
farce.  Like  many  plays  of  the  day,  it  is  something  of 
an  experiment  in  structure. 

The  scene  of  Act  I  is  the  garden  at  Arrowleigh 
Court.     It  is  Whitsunday  morning. 

First  comes  an  incident  skillfully  introduced  to  set 
the  tone  of  the  piece,  and  put  the  audience  in  the  right 
mood. 

Enter  Stronge,  Janion's  secretary,  followed  by  a 
footman  who  is  bringing  a  telephone,  so  that  Sir  Felix, 
when  he  returns  from  church,  can  sit  in  the  arbor  and 
connect  with  his  office  in  London.  The  servant  bends 
down,  looking  at  the  telephone  plug  in  the  table. 

Stronge.     What 's  the  matter,  Tupper  ? 

Tupper.  A  small  snail  in  one  of  the  holes  of  the 
plug,  sir. 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  97 

Stronge.  Oh,  shove  it  in  and  smash  it !  We  can't 
waste  time  over  a  snail. 

Tapper  (shoving  in  the  plug).     Yes,  sir. 

In  the  following  scenes  we  learn  that  for  several  years 
Lord  and  Lady  Killone  have  not  been  on  good  terms, 
and  that  Lady  Susan  is  maliciously  watching  them. 
Janion  is  talked  about  by  his  secretary,  his  sister,  and 
Lady  Kitty  from  their  various  points  of  view,  so  as  to 
stimulate  the  curiosity  of  the  audience  beforehand.  Sir 
Felix  then  makes  what  may  be  called  an  appropriate 
telephonic  first  enter.  The  telephone  bell  goes  off 
suddenly  in  a  prolonged  peal. 

Stronge  (lifting  the  receiver).  Yes  —  yes  —  he's 
just  coming.   .  .  .   Sir  Felix.  .  .  . 

Janion  comes  down  the  steps. 

Presently  Janion  has  a  conference  with  Dickson  and 
Morrish,  in  which  the  latter  is  plainly  given  to  under- 
stand that  his  services  as  editor  of  The  Earth  have 
been  unsatisfactory.  It  develops  that  his  ideals  have 
got  into  the  wrong  part  of  the  paper. 

Janion.  I'm  all  for  high  ideals  myself — in  their 
proper  place.  They  're  splendid  —  inspiring  —  lift 
you  out  of  yourself!  Stick  them  into  the  leader  page. 
Shove  your  whole  heart  and  soul  into  them.  But  don't 
you  let  any  of  that  spirit  leak  out  over  the  rest  of  my 
paper. 

After  Trevena  arrives,  the  audience  is  Informed  that 
Janion  means  to  defeat  the  Wages  Bill.  It  also  learns, 
through  a  brief  interview  between  Trevena  and  Lady 
Kitty,  what  their  relations  have  been. 

Throughout  the  act  there  are  sparkles  of  satiric  wit 
und  humor.  Interest  Is  maintained  by  exciting  news 
that  comes  at  intervals  over  the  phone,  first  of  a  scan- 
dal In  London  society,  and  tlien  of  an  earthquake  in 


98  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Antigua,  both   of  which  Janion  disposes   of  in   a  few 
volcanic  sentences. 

Finally  the  telephone  gives  one  last  peal,  and  the 
curtain  falls  with  Janion  at  the  receiver,  saying,  "  Yes 

—  yes  —  it's  I.     (Pause.)     But  I  don't  care  a  damn 

—  it  's  advertisement." 

The  scene  of  Act  II  is  the  library.  Janion  and 
Trevena  are  in  conference. 

First  is  indicated  with  great  skill,  by  means  of  four 
brief  speeches,  the  fundamental  difference  between  these 
two  characters,  so  soon  to  play  opposite  each  other 
in  desperate  conflict. 

Janion  takes  out  a  fresh  box  of  cigars,  and  opens 
it  with  a  formidable-looking  dagger.  As  they  begin  to 
smoke  he  says  to  Trevena,  holding  out  the  dagger, 
"  Like  my  paper  knife?  " 

Trevena  (taking  it).  It  hardly  suggests  cutting 
books. 

Janion.  No.  It 's  a  reformed  character.  That 's 
the  knife  Curley  killed  those  three  old  maids  with  at 
Colchester  —  you  remember  the  case. 

Trevena.  Horrible!  (Lays  the  knife  on  the  desk 
with  a  suggestion  of  disgust.) 

Then  for  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  the  action  is 
slowed  up  or  blocked  by  a  long  discussion  concerning 
a  wages  board,  government  non-interference,  trades 
unions  and  employees,  socialism,  individualism,  etc. 
With  due  allowance  for  the  fact  that  in  this  part  of 
any  play  there  is  apt  to  be  some  grading  or  retardation 
of  the  movement  toward  the  climax,  this  opening  scene 
may  justly  be  criticised  as  too  long  and  too  conversa- 
tional.    It  is  brilliant,  but  not  drama. 

Then  Janion  excuses  himself  to  speak  to  Dickson,  and 
after  a  moment  Lady  Kitty  looks  in  at  the  window  and 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  99 

then  enters.     She  reports  bad  news  from  Ireland.     She 
and  Lord  Killone  may  be  forced  to  live  on  their  estate. 

Trevena.  If  you  are  taken  away  to  Ireland,  do  you 
know  what  will  happen  .f^  I  shall  arrive  one  morning 
and  say,  "  Kitty,  come  away  with  me ;  let 's  throw  up 
everything  and  make  a  bolt." 

Lady  Killone.  Love  makes  men  foolish  and  women 
wise.  You  're  a  fighter,  a  doer ;  you  must  be  right  in 
the  front  of  actual  things.  I  know  quite  well  that 
if  I  let  you  give  up  your  career  for  me  —  in  the  end 
I  should  lose  your  love. 

Then,  rather  late  in  the  play,  and  again  somewhat 
coincidentally,  comes  the  exciting  force  —  the  incident 
that  brings  on  the  struggle  which  motives  the  plot.  As 
Trevena  bends  over  Lady  Kitty  and  kisses  her  fore- 
head, Janion  appears  outside  the  window.  He  stops, 
stares  at  them  a  moment,  and  retreats  unobserved. 

After  Trevena  has  taken  leave  to  return  to  London, 
Janion  cautiously  interviews  Lady  Susan  as  to  any 
gossip  which  may  be  afloat  concerning  Lady  Kitty. 
Learning  enough  to  confirm  his  suspicions,  he  summons 
his  henclmian,  Dickson,  and  sets  him  promptly  to  work. 

Janion.  I  want  you  to  take  this  business  in  hand 
at  once.  If  you  find  there  is  anything  in  it,  I  want 
evidence  —  reliable,  damning  evidence,  such  that,  if  it 
were  placed  in  Lord  Killonc's  hands  tomorrow,  it 
would  enable  him  to  institute  immediate  proceedings 
for  divorce.  You've  just  twenty  minutes  to  catch  the 
five  train.     You  get  to  work  on  this  tonight. 

Thus  the  curtain  descends  upon  suspense  which  brings 
on  the  next  act  with  a  rush. 

The  scene  of  Act  IH  is  Trcvcna's  study  in  London,  on 
Thursday  night.  The  Wages  Bill  is  to  be  introduced 
the  next  Monday. 


100  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

The  act  opens  with  a  few  speeches  between  Trevena 
and  his  secretary,  when  Lady  Kitty  is  announced.  On 
her  way  home  from  a  dinner  party  with  certain  nou- 
veaux  riches,  she  has  recklessly  stopped  to  give  Trevena 
a  description  of  the  gorgeousness  and  gorging.  She 
declares  that  when  one  of  the  innumerable  courses  came 
about  served  on  gold,  she  longed  to  say  to  the  servant, 
"  Please,  I  can't  eat  any  more,  but  may  I  keep  the 
plate?  "  As  they  talk,  she  falls  for  a  moment  into  the 
one  poetic  strain  in  all  the  play  —  for  like  many  mod- 
ern plays,  this  does  not  pause  for  sentiment. 

"  We  're  Celts,  you  and  I  —  you  're  Cornish,  I  'm 
Irish  —  just  two  wandering  Celts,  with  our  home  in 
the  air,  and  our  love  a  dream  —  a  dream  that  we  come 
to  out  of  the  world  for  rest  and  happiness.  We  '11  go  on 
dreaming;  we  '11  drift  in  the  crowd,  and  when  the  crowd 
brings  us  together,  I  shall  whisper,  '  How  is  my  lover?  ' 
and  you  '11  say,  '  Well,  when  he  's  near  you.'  Don't 
spoil  the  dream  by  tliinking  of  reality  that 's  out  of  our 
reach." 

Then,  just  as  Trevena  is  about  to  read  his  speech  to 
her,  Janion  is  announced.  Lady  Kitty  exits  into  the 
drawing  room,  without,  as  the  first-night  reviewers  ob- 
sei-ved,  taking  the  usual  theatrical  precaution  to  leave 
behind  her  a  glove  or  a  handkerchief  or  a  fan  to  be- 
tray her  presence.  As  soon  as  Janion  comes  in,  how- 
ever, the  climax  is  promptly  worked  up  to,  without  any 
artificial  help  from  Lady  Kitty's  reckless  visit.  Reve- 
lation is  part  of  it,  as  so  often  at  this  point  in  the 
unfolding  of  a  plot.  Janion  has  learned  the  story 
of  Trevena's  life  for  the  last  three  or  four  years, 
and  has  obtained  evidence  in  the  form  of  signed 
statements;  so  that  Trevena  is  speedily  driven  to  the 
wall. 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  101 

Trevena.  You  've  struck  at  me  through  a  woman's 
good  name  —  and  you  know  I  can't  let  her  run  the  risk 
of  losing  it.  My  hands  are  tied.  You  've  got  me  — 
what  do  you  want? 

It  is  the  sharpest  turn  in  the  plot, 

Janion.  I  want  the  Wages  Bill.  Either  you  with- 
draw the  Wages  Bill,  or  I  go  to  Lord  Killone. 

Trevena.  (Stares  before  him  in  silence.  At  last  he 
speaks  —  brokenly.)  Y^es  —  you've  got  me.  Very 
well.  I  shall  see  the  Premier  tomorrow.  There  will 
have  to  be  a  cabinet  meeting  —  some  of  them  are  in 
town.  I  suppose  I  shall  be  able  to  concoct  some  kind  of 
explanation.  The  announcement  will  be  made  as  soon 
as  possible. 

Janion.  The  announcement  will  be  made  in  to- 
morrow's issue  of  The  Earth.  (Taking  a  slip  of  paper 
from  his  letter-case  and  reading.)  "  The  Earth  is  en- 
abled to  inform  its  readers,  on  the  highest  authority, 
that  the  Wages  Bill  will  not  be  brought  forward  this 
session,  and  will  in  all  probability  ultimately  be  allowed 
to  drop."  I  have  got  to  see  that  my  readers  get  im- 
portant news  before  the  readers  of  other  papers. 

Trevena.  Good  God!  The  whole  thing  to  you  is 
nothing  but  a  journalistic  scoop  ! 

After  Janion  exits,  Lady  Kitty  returns  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  thougli  she  questions  Trevena  in  vain,  slie 
feels  that  some  crisis  is  upon  them,  and  goes  away  in 
great  alarm. 

The  fourth  and  final  act  is  the  most  dramatic  and 
unhackneyed  of  all.  The  time  is  the  next  morning. 
The  place  is  Janion's  editorial  office  in  the  East  End. 
Hanging  against  the  bookcase  at  the  back  is  a  contents 
bill  of  The  Earth,  containing  a  single  announcement  in 
huge  letters:  The  Wages  Bill  Abandoned. 


102  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


Dickson  is  exulting,  and  reading  from  the  paper  in 
loud  tones,  when  the  chief  enters. 

Janion's  attitude  toward  the  whole  affair  is  hit  off 
at  once  in  a  few  speeches  made  in  the  same  spirit  in 
which  he  closed  liis  stormy  interview  with  Trevena  the 
previous  evening. 

He  orders  Dickson  to  take  the  bill  down,  and  refuses 
to  discuss  the  matter,  merely  because  it  is  done  with. 
Then  he  throws  himself  tremendously  into  his  next  en- 
terprise —  a  plan  to  publish  an  Encyclopedia  of  pic- 
tures in  colors,  of  every  conceivable  thing  on  the  earth, 
with  the  names  underneath  in  the  five  principal  modern 
languages. 

Then  follows  a  farcical  interview  with  the  editor  of 
one  of  his  religious  papers.  Then  Trevena  calls  up  on 
the  telephone,  to  ask  when  he  can  see  Janion.  Before 
he  arrives.  Lady  Killone's  card  is  brought  in.  From 
this  point  to  the  denouement  we  have  the  most  unique 
scene  in  the  play.  Lady  Kitty  explains  that  she  has 
seen  Trevena  that  morning;  that,  refusing  to  be  put 
off,  she  has  learned  what  passed  the  night  before ;  and 
that  she  cannot  and  will  not  allow  Trevena  to  withdraw 
the  Wages  Bill  and  ruin  his  career  merely  to  shield  her 
reputation.  In  the  midst  of  her  courageous  defiance 
and  Janion's  hard,  matter-of-fact  defense  of  what  he 
calls  his  political  expedient,  Trevena  arrives. 

The  fall  of  the  action  is  then  arrested  at  two  points. 
A  last  hope  appears  for  a  moment,  only  to  disappear. 

Trevena.  How  did  you  get  the  information  you  pub- 
lished? There  is  the  Official  Secrets  Act,  which  you 
seem  to  have  overlooked.  They  may  not  order  an  in- 
quiry, but  if  they  should,  you  had  better  be  ready 
with  your  "  story  "  and  evidence. 

The  editor  is  startled,  and  for  a  breathless  moment 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  103 

the  audience  expects  that  the  knot  of  the  plot  is  to 
be  cut  at  once.  But  Janion  manages  to  invent  a  story 
of  a  stolen  letter,  which,  Trevena  contemptuously  as- 
sures him,  is  no  worse  than  the  other  devices  which 
bolster  up  the  whole  business. 

Then  Lady  Kitty  puts  in  a  shrewd  remark  which 
rouses  Janion  again,  and  makes  him  bluster.  She  warns 
Trevena  that  the  desperate  expedient  of  withdrawing 
the  bill  will  not  end  this  affair. 

Lady  Killone.  You  're  tied  hand  and  foot  for  the  rest 
of  your  life  if  you  give  in  now.  This  is  only  the  begin- 
ning ;    do  you  think  he  '11  forget  what  he  knows  .  .  . 

Then  Trevena  rounds  on  Janion  in  the  bitterest 
speech  of  the  play. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  n't  true  —  what  she  said  to  me? 
It 's  the  simple  truth.  .  .  .  You,  the  self-styled  mouth- 
piece of  a  great  country  that  professes  the  charity  of 
Christ  —  you  who  make  your  filthy  profits  by  selling 
a  woman's  shame  at  the  street  corners  in  your  miser- 
able rags !    You  're  ghouls  —  you  're  ghouls,  I  tell  you ! 

—  feeding  on  human  misery  and  human  frailty  and 
shame.     Come  away,  Kitty  —  let 's  get  out  of  this." 

Lady  Kitty  makes  a  last  appeal  to  him  to  contradict 
the  announcement  that  the  bill  is  withdrawn.  Again 
Trevena  declares  that  he  cannot.  Then  she  goes  to  the 
end  of  the  desk,  and  speaks  straight  across  at  Janion. 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  know  what  I  have  to  do.  I  am 
going  straight  from  here  to  the  office  of  the  Press 
Association.  I  shall  dictate  the  entire  story  of  this 
intrigue  —  this  political  expedient  —  this  blackmail  — 
this  —  call  it  what  you  will.     This  afternoon  the  truth 

—  the  whole  truth  —  will  be  in  every  newspaper  in  the 
country  —  yours,    perhaps,   excepted." 

Trevena.     Kitty !     You  don't  mean  .  .  . 


104  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Lady  Killone.  As  there  's  a  God  above  us,  I  do  mean 
it!  You  have  a  higher  duty  than  any  man  owes  any 
woman.  Your  work  's  not  your  own  —  no,  nor  your 
life.  It  belongs  to  others,  to  the  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  others  you  work  for.  And  you  'd  give  it  up.  Why.'' 
To  save  my  good  name  —  my  reputation ;  as  if  any 
woman's  reputation  was  worth  such  a  sacrifice !  Forty 
—  fifty  years  hence,  what  will  my  name  matter,  so  that 
your  work  was  done?  What  will  it  all  matter,  when 
history  has  put  the  wretched  scandal  that  followed 
among  the  little  petty  things  that  don't  count.'*  .   .  . 

Trevena.  Janion,  on  Monday  I  introduce  the  Wages 
Bill.    You  can  do  your  worst. 

Then  comes  the  reversal. 

Janion.  One  moment,  Trevena.  I  want  a  word  with 
you.  Shut  that  door,  please.  (Janion  faces  Lady 
Killone  with  a  grim  smile.)  Lady  Killone,  I  know  when 
I  'm  beaten.  You  've  beaten  me  —  this  time.  ...  I 
undertake  that  the  withdrawal  of  the  Wages  Bill  shall 
be  contradicted  in  the  next  editions  of  all  my  evening 
papers.  Tomorrow's  issue  of  The  Earth  will,  of 
course,  inform  its  numerous  readers  of  —  er  —  a  "  re- 
grettable inaccuracy  on  the  part  of  our  informant." 
(He  takes  out  his  letter-case  and  produces  from  it  a 
paper.)  As  for  this  "political  weapon,"  I  have  no 
further  use  for  it.  (He  gives  it  to  Trevena.)  You  're 
living  on  a  precipice,  you  two.  You  '11  fall  over  soon 
enough  without  my  pushing  you.  That 's  all.  You 
can  go.      (He  turns  away.) 

Trevena.  Yes,  we  are  going.  But  a  day  will  come, 
Janion,  when  decent  men  and  women  will  rebel  against 
a  tyranny  that  does  not  respect  their  private  lives, 
that  knows  neither  pity  nor  remorse,  and  then  —  you 
will  go. 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  105 


The  Inconclusive  Ending 

In  some  such  inconclusive  fashion  as  this  many 
plays  of  the  day  bring  themselves  to  a  close.  The 
modern  dramatist  seems  persuaded  that  the  work  of 
investigation  is  enough  for  him  to  do,  and  that  he 
ought  not  to  be  expected  to  wind  up  liis  plot  like  a 
piece  of  special  pleading  in  court.  He  is  ambitious 
above  all  else  to  open  the  minds  of  his  audience  and 
stimulate  thought,  and  he  fears  lest,  if  he  solves  all  his 
problems,  and  answers  all  questions,  the  audience  may 
accept  the  solutions  and  the  answers  too  hastily,  and 
think  no  more  about  it.  So  he  fights  shy  of  his 
Q.  E.  D. 

The  old  play  often  seemed  content  to  close  in  every 
sense  of  the  word,  hermetically,  with  all  its  characters 
either  dead  or  married.  And  if  its  author  had  a  taste 
for  edification  and  the  smooth  perversions  that  admin- 
ister a  falsified  moral  comfort,  it  was  sure  to  get  the 
better  of  him  as  his  last  act  moved  on  apace  toward 
that  strange  finality  which  is  reached  on  the  stage 
and  not  in  the  world. 

Neither  the  reader,  in  turning  the  last  pages  of  a 
play,  nor  the  spectator  in  watching  the  final  scene  in 
the  theater,  is  apt  to  realize  how  difficult  it  is  to  make 
vital  drama  reach  its  finale  without  being  everlastingly 
final,  and  conclude  without  being  altogether  conclusive. 
While  the  action  is  going  on,  there  is  always  the  possi- 
bility of  making  it  like  life;  but  when  the  moment 
comes  to  bring  it  to  a  close,  artificial  means  must  be 
used.  For  there  are  no  endings  in  human  experience 
that  correspond  to  the  dropped  curtain,  the  extin- 
guished lights,  the  deserted  theater.     Somehow  or  other, 


106  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

life  goes  on  and  on  in  eternal  sequence.     Only  plays 
come  to  an  end. 

The  new  play  makes  its  characters  so  alive  that  even 
the  ringing  down  of  an  asbestos  curtain  cannot  kill 
them  —  or  marry  them.  The  audience  goes  away  won- 
dering what  is  likely  to  happen  next,  and  speculat- 
ing upon  the  situations  which  have  been  created  and 
investigated. 


The  Unhappy  Ending 

To  digress  for  a  moment:  It  is  curious  to  observe 
that  sometimes  the  public,  facing  a  new  play  of  the 
day,  protests  against  the  ending  because  it  is  "  un- 
happy," when  the  only  trouble  seems  to  be  that  it  is 
an  ending,  and  hence  artificial  in  comparison  with  the 
earlier  parts  of  the  play. 

Three  years  ago,  when  Mr.  Patterson's  "  The  Fourth 
Estate,"  also  a  newspaper  play,  was  produced,  the 
audiences  could  not  endure  or  would  not  endure  the 
suicide  of  Wheeler  Brand,  which  formed  the  original 
denouement.  It  proved  absolutely  necessary  to  devise 
some  kind  of  fortunate  ending,  if  the  play  was  to  be 
saved  from  speedy  oblivion. 

Now  it  happened  that  in  the  course  of  the  same 
season  Stephen  Phillips'  "  Herod  "  was  presented  for 
the  first  time  in  this  country.  The  public  seemed 
quite  unaware  how  calmly  it  was  viewing  the  tragic 
catastrophes  of  that  play.  When  Aristobulus  was 
drowned  and  Sohemus,  mortally  wounded,  rolled  down 
a  flight  of  brass  steps,  and  Mariamne  was  poisoned,  and 
Herod  passed  into  a  cataleptic  trance,  the  audiences 
looked  on  complacently.  If  anyone  had  thrills  of  hor- 
ror, they  seemed  to  be  agreeable  thrills. 


THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY  107 

But  such  a  play  as  "  Herod  "  is  artificial  throughout, 
with  a  kind  of  artificiality  which,however  imaginative  and 
poetic,  is  unmistakable.  And  so  the  old  tragic  finale 
fitted  on  without  a  break,  and  nobody  cried  out  against  it. 

"  The  Fourth  Estate,"  on  the  other  hand,  was  very 
successful  realism.  The  "  naturalness "  and  costly 
verisimilitude  of  manager's  office  and  composing  room 
were  the  outward  symbols  of  the  inner  spirit  of  the 
play.  Its  original  ending  seemed  unreal  just  because, 
being  an  ending,  it  demanded  more  obvious  contrivance 
than  the  preceding  scenes.  The  makers  of  the  play  had 
apparently  succeeded  very  well  in  keeping  their  hands 
off  while  the  action  was  evolving ;  but  when  the  time  limit 
of  performance  was  reached,  they  were  forced  to  inter- 
fere, merely  because  the  play  could  not  go  on  forever. 

And  that  made  all  the  trouble. 

Perhaps  in  fairness  to  those  dramatists,  not  a  few, 
who  are  now  striving  so  earnestly  to  create  life  and 
not  the  shadow  of  life  upon  the  stage,  we  ought  always 
to  be  fully  satisfied  when,  by  a  tour  de  force,  they  suc- 
ceed in  getting  a  situation  vividly  presented;  for  it  is 
easy  to  understand  that  there  is  small  chance  for  a 
play  to  be  truly  realistic  after  that  point  has  been 
reached. 


Turning  toward  the  Future 

At  all  events,  returning  to  the  play  chosen  for  illus- 
tration : 

To  make  a  play  end  like  "  The  Earth,"  on  a  com- 
pleted situation,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  open  It  out 
upon  the  future  toward  wln'ch  the  vital  play  should 
ever  turn  its  face,  is  admirable  ingenuity  in  meeting  a 
stubborn   dramaturgic  difficulty. 


IX 

HIGH    COMEDY 

OR 

co:medy  of  manners 

Illustrated  by  "  Lady  Windermere's  Fan  " 
By  Oscab  Wilde 

SURPRISINGLY  little  has  ever  been  written  upon 
comedy.  Freytag,  whose  work  on  "  The  Tech- 
nique of  the  Drama,"  was  until  recently  almost 
the  only  one  to  turn  to,  ignored  comedy  completely. 
As  he  was  a  philosophical  German,  possibly  that  was 
providential.  In  the  works  of  Brander  Matthews  and 
William  Archer,  and  in  the  various  collected  reviews 
and  criticisms  now  issued  in  book  form,  there  are  occa- 
sional chapters  upon  this  subject;  but  the  authors  all 
seem  to  make  haste  to  get  away  from  it  as  quickly  as 
possible.  Even  when  what  they  say  is  clever  and  inter- 
esting, they  apparently  realize  that  often  their  dis- 
tinctions and  definitions,  however  plausible  they  may 
sound,  are  likely  to  go  to  pieces  in  face  of  a  real 
comedy  on  a  real  stage  before  a  real  audience. 

The  one  book  upon  the  subject  which  is  most  thor- 
ough in  treatment  and  most  brilliant  in  style  is  George 
Meredith's  "  Comedy  and  the  Uses  of  the  Comic  Spirit." 
But  Meredith,  in  all  his  works  and  ways,  is  caviar  to 
the  general;    and  it  is  the  general  who  need  to  know 


HIGH    COMEDY  109 

about  drama.  Moreover,  this  small  volume  is  less  valu- 
able than  it  otherwise  would  be,  because,  though  pub- 
lished as  an  essay,  it  was  written  as  a  lecture;  and 
lecture  style,  being  addressed  to  the  ear  rather  than 
to  the  eye,  is  apt  to  be  artificially  heightened,  even 
when  the  author  is  not  George  jVIeredith. 

Comedy  is  of  timely  interest,  because  it  is  evident 
that  comedic  drama  of  the  serious  and  significant  sort 
is  more  distinctively  the  play  of  the  day  than  tragedy, 
or  the  problem  play,  now  somewhat  outmoded,  or  any 
other  dramatic  form. 

Granville  Barker,  who  is  today  stimulating  advanced 
thought  on  the  drama  in  England,  considers  comedy 
the  play  of  the  moment.  "  Modern  life,"  he  says,  "  calls 
for  interpretation  by  comedy;  that  is,  by  comedy 
which  shall  reflect  and  clarify,  honestly  and  humorously, 
the  confused  life  about  us."  This  he  calls  the  normal 
drama;  not  the  advanced  drama,  nor  the  intellectual 
drama,  but  the  normal  play  for  normal  people. 

The  cliief  reason  why  comedy  is  coming  in  on  the 
horizon  all  about  us,  is  because  it  makes  a  more  intel- 
lectual appeal  at  the  moment  to  the  audience  in  the 
theater  than  any  other  kind  of  play.  True,  like  all 
drama,  its  first  and  chiefest  appeal  is  to  the  emotions. 
In  comedy,  as  in  any  other  kind  of  play,  there  must 
be  suspense  and  tension,  which  always  work  upon  the 
feelings.  The  play  that  addresses  itself  to  the  mind 
first  and  most  of  all,  and  makes  no  other  appeal,  like 
some  of  Shaw's  stage  conversations  —  well,  if  it  is 
very  brilliant  and  attractively  presented,  it  may  be 
successful ;  but  it  is  a  doubtful  venture,  and  always 
will  be  till  human  nature  is  revised  and  edited  into 
something  difFercnt  from  what  it  is  or  ever  has  been. 

But  the  mind  can  be  alert  in  the  theater  in  a  kind 


110  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

of  secondary  way,  the  emotions  being  engaged  at  the 
same  time;  and  comedy  is  the  only  play  that  calls 
out  this  instantaneous  mental  quickness  and  alertness 
in  the  audience.  And  the  present-day  audience  likes 
to  be  so  stimulated. 

The  modern  audience  is  different  from  that  of  a 
generation  or  two  ago,  or  further  in  the  past.  It  does 
not  think  more  deeply,  for  Shakespeare  and  Moliere 
always  demanded  thought ;  but  it  is  sharper,  more 
closely  observant,  more  responsive  to  the  appeal  of  new, 
fresh,  stimulating  ideas,  quicker  to  make  deductions  and 
connections,  and  in  every  way  wider  awake  while  it  is  in 
the  theater  than  the  audience  of  an  earlier  day. 

Now  modern  comedy  is  subtle,  elusive,  brightened 
by  a  delicate  infused  satire,  which  is  different  from 
the  interpolated  comic  scene.  It  has  a  distinct  intel- 
lectual trend.  It  does  not  make  an  audience  nearly 
die  laughing,  like  the  comedic  plays  of  the  past,  but  it 
wakes  them  up.  And  the  modern  audience,  being  capa- 
ble of  thinking  quickly  and  responding  instantaneously, 
likes  to  be  put  to  the  test  in  the  theater. 

Tragedy  always  so  tries  the  soul  while  the  play  is 
going  on  that  the  brain  never  sets  to  work  until  after 
the  performance  is  over;  and  farce  and  melodrama 
never  stimulate  thought  at  all. 

"  Lady  Windermere's  Fan  "  is  full  of  illustrations 
in  point.  A  few  lines  taken  almost  at  random  from 
Act  III  will  show  this  appeal  to  alertness  of  mind 
which  is  so  pleasing  to  the  modern  audience,  and  inci- 
dentally will  mark  the  difference  between  the  brilliant 
speech  that  is  introduced  just  because  it  is  brilliant,  and 
the  speech  that  not  only  scintillates  on  its  own  ac- 
count, but  pushes  the  action  of  the  play  along  at  the 
same  time. 


HIGH    COMEDY  111 

William  Archer  once  said  that  a  witty  speech  in  a 
play  should  be  like  a  blossom  on  a  laburnum,  instead 
of  like  a  candle  on  a  Christmas  tree.  That  is,  it 
should  grow  out  of  the  whole  structure  and  not  be  put 
on  from  outside. 

The  scene  is  Lord  Darlington's  rooms.  Five  men  are 
smoking  and  talking.  One  of  them  is  Cecil  Graham, 
young,  smart  and  irrepressible.  Another  is  Lord 
Augustus  Lorton,  familiarly  known  as  Tuppy,  not 
too  clever  —  indeed,  rather  slow  and  gullible. 

In  this  passage  Tuppy  is  hit  off  exactly,  and  as 
he  is  an  important  character,  that  helps  develop  the 
play.  Lord  Darlington  is  outlined  also,  as  a  dreamer, 
a  theorist,  and  something  of  a  sentimentalist. 

Lord  D.     What  cynics  you  fellows  are! 

Cecil  G.     What  is  a  C3mic? 

Lord  D.  A  man  who  knows  the  price  of  everything, 
and  the  value  of  nothing. 

Cecil  G.  And  a  sentimentalist,  my  dear  Darlington, 
is  a  man  who  sees  an  absurd  value  in  everything,  and 
does  n't  know  the  market  price  of  any  single  thing. 

Lord  D.  You  always  amuse  me,  Cecil.  You  talk 
as  if  you  were  a  man  of  experience. 

Cecil  G.    I  am. 

Lord  D.     You  are  far  too  young! 

Cecil  G.  That  is  a  great  error.  Experience  is  a 
question  of  instinct  about  life.  I  have  got  it.  Tuppy 
has  n't.  Experience  is  the  name  Tuppy  gives  to  his 
mistakes.     That  is  all. 

One  must  think  alertly  to  get  the  points  in  such 
rapid  colloquy. 

Another  reason  why  comedy  is  the  play  of  the  day 
is  that  it  favors  or  makes  possible  the  non-en(Hng  or 
indeterminate  close  —  the  kind  of  end  which,  although 


112  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

it  completes  the  dramatic  design,  does  so  without  final- 
ity, thus  opening  and  stimulating  the  minds  of  the 
audience,  and  giving  them  something  to  think  of  in 
working  out  the  situation.  This  also  the  modern  audi- 
ence enjoys. 

Neither  tragedy  nor  farce  favors  the  non-ending 
close.  In  the  nature  of  things,  they  must  work  them- 
selves out  to  the  very  end,  leaving  no  room  for 
speculation. 

This  play  furnishes  a  good  illustration  of  the  inde- 
terminate ending,  for  though  it  is  most  dramatic  and 
exciting,  we  find  that  after  all  it  does  not  violently 
shake  the  kaleidoscope  of  events.  Lady  Windermere 
never  learns  that  Mrs.  Erlynne  is  her  mother.  Lord 
Windermere  never  discovers  that  Lady  Windermere 
was  on  the  point  of  eloping  with  Lord  Darlington. 
Mrs.  Erlynne  does  one  kind  act,  but  is  not  permanently 
reformed,  and  at  the  end  of  the  play  leaves  England 
forever.  No  violent  or  far-reaching  changes  have  taken 
place.  The  play  is  merely  a  tranche  de  vie  which  the 
audience  may  observe  and  interpret  as  it  chooses. 

Now  experience  and  observation  are  apt  to  show 
that  exciting  events  often  have  a  queer  way  of  coming 
to  nothing  particular  in  the  end.  This  is  why  comedy, 
favoring  the  non-ending  close,  is  expressive  of  so  much 
in  life  and  human  nature. 


Comedy  Defined 

If  comedy,  then,  is  for  any  reason  or  to  any  extent 
the  play  of  the  moment,  it  is  worth  while  to  define  it 
as  far  as  possible  and  stake  out  its  boundaries. 

How  does  it  differ  from  farce,  for  example?  That 
is  an  old,  well-debated  question.     Moreover,  how  does 


HIGH    COMEDY  113 

high  or  serious  comedy  differ  from  tragedy?  That 
inquiry  has  a  newer  sound. 

It  has  often  been  said  that  comedy  deals  with  the 
possible,  the  probable  even,  the  credible,  the  easily  con- 
ceivable ;  and  that  farce,  on  the  other  hand,  deals  with 
the  impossible,  the  preposterous,  the  inconceivable  and 
the  incredible.  It  has  been  said  also  that  comedy 
elaborates  a  situation,  even  a  critical  or  climactic  situ- 
ation —  that  it  is  static,  stationary,  not  dependent  upon 
plot ;  but  that  farce  must  be  full  of  incident,  with  an 
elaborate  and  intricate  plot,  so  that  something  is  hap- 
pening all  the  time  —  as  much  in  fact  as  can  be  crowded 
into  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  play.  It  is  usually 
set  forth  also  that  the  action  in  farce  must  be  obvious 
and  so  to  speak  physical,  not  an  affair  of  mental 
states. 

By  way  of  still  another  distinction,  George  Meredith 
says  that  comedy  causes  thoughtful  laughter;  farce 
(he  doubtless  means  by  implication)  causing  thought- 
less laughter. 

The  trouble  with  these  definitions  is,  that  in  the 
theater,  where  they  should  be  decisively  pointed  and 
emphasized,  they  are  sometimes  totally  discredited. 

But  there  are  a  few  distinctions  that  seem  absolutely 
sound  as  between  comedy  and  farce.  Seldom  is  any- 
thing seen  on  the  stage  which  tends  to  blur  or  efface 
the  following  differences: 

High  or  serious  comedy  must  be  credible  and  easily 
conceivable.  It  cannot  deal  with,  or  use  for  its  ma- 
terial, the  preposterous  or  the  fantastic  or  the  in- 
credible. Obviously,  this  is  not  true  of  romantic 
comedy,  like  Shakespeare's  "Tempest";  but  that  is 
a  different  form  altogetjier. 

However,  althougii  comedy  nmst  be  credible,  it  is 


114  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

not   true  that   farce  must   use  preposterous   material. 
Farce  may  choose. 

Comedy  may  or  may  not  be  full  of  incident.  Usually 
good  comedy  is  not  crowded  with  happenings.  But  it 
need  not  necessarily  work  out  a  mere  situation. 

Farce  must  be  full  of  incident  and  move  briskly. 
Long-drawn-out  farce  is  conceivable;  or,  rather,  it  is 
a  bore.  When  farce  begins  to  move  slowly  it  at  once 
loses  its  hold  upon  the  audience. 

What  should  be  made  very  plain  is,  that  comedy 
may,  from  beginning  to  end,  do  nothing  but  work  out 
a  situation,  leaving  affairs  to  all  outward  seeming  ex- 
actly as  they  were  at  the  beginning,  and  that  comedy 
is  the  only  kind  of  drama  which  can  thus  prolong  a 
situation  and  yet  be  intensely  absorbing  and  dramati- 
cally effective. 

It  is  clear  that  tragedy  cannot  dwell  long  upon  a 
crisis,  for  its  highest  points  are  a  terrible  stress  and 
strain  upon  the  emotions.  It  would  be  dangerous  to 
sustain  a  tragic  crisis ;  in  fact,  it  would  be  impossible. 
Human  beings  cannot  endure  emotion  at  the  highest 
point  for  many  moments  at  a  time. 

Comedy  usually  causes  thoughtful  laughter,  but  not 
always.  There  are  often  points  where  the  laughter 
is  careless,  even  in  comedy  that  is  all  of  a  kind,  never 
becoming  farce  for  a  moment. 

Farce  always  causes  thoughtless  laughter,  stimulat- 
ing no  speculation  while  the  action  is  going  on  nor 
after  it  comes  to  an  end. 

Now,  as  to  the  difference  between  high  or  serious 
comedy  and  tragedy. 

When  this  question  is  raised,  what  first  comes  to 
mind  is  the  difference  in  the  ending.  Tragedy,  we  say, 
is  drama  with  a  disastrous  finale,  a  heartrending  close; 


HIGH    COMEDY  115 

while  comedy  always  has  a  propitious  or  fortunate  or 
happy  ending. 

But  we  know  after  a  moment's  thought  that  the  end- 
ing is  the  least  significant  detail  in  any  play.  No 
drama  in  all  the  world  was  ever  tragic  merely  because 
it  had  a  calamitous  ending.  No  play  was  ever  comedic 
merely  because  it  reached  a  happy  issue. 

For  an  extreme  example  let  us  take  Ibsen's  "  Hedda 
Gabler."  Suppose  that  at  the  end  Lovborg  returned 
to  Tesman's  house,  and  Thea  gave  him  the  notes  of  his 
book,  and  Brack  had  nothing  to  threaten  Hedda  with, 
and  Hedda  did  not  commit  suicide;  in  other  words, 
suppose  that  the  first  three  acts  are  left  as  they  were 
written,  and  then  the  fourth  and  final  act  is  made  over 
so  that  it  avoids  disaster  —  would  the  play  then  be 
comedy?  We  see  at  once  that  it  would  not.  It  is  a 
dark  play  from  the  outset,  the  real  tragedy  being 
Hedda's  marriage  to  Tesman,  which  took  place  before 
the  action  begins. 

Tragedy  is  tragic  throughout,  with  a  cloud  hang- 
ing over  it  from  the  first  curtain.  Tragic  incidents  are 
observed  and  commented  upon  and  made  to  motive  the 
action  and  color  the  whole  drama,  while  whatever  is 
comedic  is  subdued  or  passed  over  lightly.  The 
tragedy  is  in  the  whole  warp  and  woof  of  a  really  tragic 
play. 

This  brings  us  to  a  point  of  interest,  namely,  the 
difference  between  a  tragic  view  and  a  comedic  view 
of  the  same  dramatic  material. 

Drama  is  always  made  out  of  an  action  or  an  inci- 
dent or  a  group  of  incidents  in  which  life  is  intense 
and  vigorous.  Tliis  action  or  those  incidents  must  be 
segregated  as  completely  as  possible  without  sacrificing 
the  sense  of  their  place  in  the  world;    and  then  they 


116  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

must  be  shown  up  and  commented  upon  in  a  dramatic 
way  and  thus  made  into  a  play. 

If  the  dramatist  looks  at  these  incidents  in  their 
social  aspect,  so  as  to  make  us  see  the  faults,  the 
foibles,  the  eccentricities,  the  peculiarities,  the  incon- 
gruities, the  artificialities,  the  human  imperfections,  the 
foolish  conceits  and  absurdities  of  the  characters,  sub- 
duing all  their  severer  aspects  —  then  the  play  is 
comedy.  Comedy  is  always  social ;  loneliness  is  in  itself 
tragic. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  dramatist  treats  the  same 
set  of  incidents  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  out  their 
sterner  side;  if  fate  is  allowed  to  enter;  if  there  is 
a  stern  struggle  with  conscience  and  a  final  surrender 
to  revenge  or  hatred;  if  it  is  made  apparent  that 
the  misfortunes  try  the  very  souls  of  the  dramatis  per- 
sons; if  all  views  of  foibles  and  peculiarities  are  brief 
and  no  small  incidents  are  shown  up  in  an  amusing  light 
—  then  the  play  is  tragedy.  And  it  usually  runs  to 
a  disastrous  end. 

If  the  ridiculous  aspects  are  made  to  prevail  —  and 
ridiculous  happenings  do  get  strangely  mixed  up  with 
the  most  strenuous  events  in  life  —  then  the  play  is 
farce. 

If  the  incidents  are  allowed  to  follow  one  another 
as  by  chance  and  the  characters  are  made  to  seem 
mere  victims,  without  conscience  or  responsibility,  then 
the  play  is  melodrama. 

Thus  almost  any  event,  or  series  of  events,  which  is 
intense  and  vital  enough  to  be  dramatic  material,  can 
be  used  for  almost  any  kind  of  play,  depending  on  how 
the  dramatist  views  it  and  what  aspect  of  life  he  insists 
upon  and  makes  much  of.  The  question  of  atmosphere 
(actors  know  what  that  means),  of  how  the  special 


HIGH    COMEDY  117 

phase  of  life  is  observed,  is  what  determines  the  kind 
of  play  that  is  turned  out.  The  material,  the  mere  out- 
line of  events,  stripped  bare  of  comment  and  blown 
clear  of  atmosphere,  is  often  much  the  same,  for  comedy, 
for  tragedy,  or  what  not.  It  is  the  dramatist's  concept 
of  the  situation  that  determines  the  form  of  the  play. 

Comedy  Illustrated 

The  material  used  in  "  Lady  Windermere's  Fan  "  is 
excellent  for  illustration  of  the  technical  points  in  high 
comedy.  This  play  employs  the  familiar  social  tri- 
angle, the  husband,  the  wife,  and  some  one  to  come 
between  them  and  for  the  moment  create  disharmony 
and  cause  a  dramatic  conflict. 

The  events  which  took  place  before  the  play  begins, 
and  which  are  worked  into  the  colloquy  as  it  proceeds, 
are  as  follows : 


Good  Dramatic  Material 

Twenty  years  before  the  first  curtain  rises,  there 
lived  in  London  a  young  couple  who  were  not  well 
suited  to  each  other.  The  husband,  we  infer  from 
what  is  said  in  the  play  (he  docs  not  appear),  was 
Puritanic,  stern,  uncompromising,  possibly  what  might 
be  called  uninteresting,  and  very  Uritish. 

The  young  wife,  IMargarct,  was  a  brilliant  woman, 
audacious,  daring,  resourceful,  clever  to  a  degree,  reck- 
less, with  just  cnougli  character  to  repent  wrongdoing, 
but  not  enough  to  avoid  it.  They  have  one  child,  a 
daughter,  who,  to  look  forward,  becomes  the  heroine 
•of  this  play.  Lady  Windermere. 

When  this  cliild  was  less  than  a  year  old  the  reck- 


118  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

less  young  wife  disappeared,  and  it  became  known 
that  she  had  fled  to  the  Continent  with  a  lover.  "  I 
prefer  living  in  the  South,"  she  explained  many  years 
afterward.  "  London  is  too  full  of  fogs  and  serious 
people.  Whether  the  fogs  produce  the  serious  people, 
or  the  serious  people  produce  the  fogs,  I  don't  know; 
but  the  whole  thing  rather  gets  on  my  nerves." 

To  the  husband  this  was  an  awful  calamity.  He 
made  no  effort  to  trace  her,  allowed  her  to  pass  out 
of  his  life,  and  seldom  mentioned  her  name.  He  gave 
his  child  into  the  care  of  his  older  sister,  who  was 
even  sterner  and  more  Puritanic  than  he.  And  for 
whatever  reason,  he  did  one  thing  of  doubtful  wisdom; 
he  told  the  child,  as  she  grew  up,  that  her  mother  died 
when  she  was  an  infant,  and  that  it  caused  him  great 
pain  to  speak  of  her.  He  gave  the  child  her  mother's 
picture,  a  miniature,  showing  a  beautiful,  sweet-faced 
young  woman  with  dark  hair.  Every  night  before  she 
said  her  prayers,  Margaret  kissed  this  miniature,  feel- 
ing that  her  mother's  spirit  was  ever  guarding  and 
guiding  her. 

Her  father  died  before  she  was  fully  grown,  and  she 
always  believed  that  his  heart  was  broken  at  the  time 
of  her  mother's  death. 

She  continued  to  live  with  her  uncompromising  aunt, 
who,  we  are  given  to  understand,  was  even  stricter  and 
sterner  than  she  otherwise  would  have  been,  in  fear 
that  the  girl  might  have  inherited  some  of  her  mother's 
traits. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen,  Margaret  married  a  man 
of  rank  and  fortune,  who  is  devoted  to  her  and  makes 
her  very  happy.  At  the  time  the  play  opens  they 
have  been  married  two  years  and  have  one  child,  a  son. 

In  the  meantime  the  mother,  the  brilliant  and  reck- 


HIGH    COMEDY  119 

less  woman  who  fled  to  the  Continent  with  her  lover, 
has  been  abandoned  by  the  lover,  has  tired  of  the  life 
she  has  been  leading,  has  paid  for  her  sin,  as  she  said, 
"  again  and  again,"  and  longs  for  an  opportunity  to 
regain  her  position  in  society.  This  social  rehabili- 
tation can  only  be  brought  about,  she  realizes,  by  a 
marriage  with  some  man  of  position  and  means.  She 
is  still  youthful  and  brilliant  and  beautiful,  with,  as 
she  plainly  intimates,  the  kind  of  brains,  the  kind  of 
wit,  the  kind  of  courage,  that  enables  a  woman  to  get 
back.  All  she  needs  is  opportunity.  She  knows,  to 
quote  her  own  words,  that  there  are  just  as  many 
fools  in  society  as  there  used  to  be,  and  she  knows 
how  to  manage  them. 

One  day  she  reads  in  the  papers  that  her  daughter, 
whom  she  had  abandoned  without  a  pang,  and  whom 
she  remembers  merely  as  a  fright  in  flannel,  had  mar- 
ried Lord  Windermere.  She  sees  her  chance  and  takes 
it.  Returning  to  London  under  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Erlynne,  she  tells  the  whole  story  to  Lord  Windermere, 
and  threatens  to  reveal  it  to  Lady  Windermere  if  he 
does  not  help  her  with  his  name  and  his  influence  to  get 
back  into  society.  In  fear  that  the  mother's  sin  and 
social  disgrace  may  become  known  to  the  daughter, 
who  really  would  be  in  danger  of  being  killed  with  the 
shame  of  it  all,  Lord  Windermere  is  willing  to  do  almost 
anything,  in  desperation.  It  is,  in  point  of  fact,  a 
blackmailing  scheme,  but  very  cleverly  and  brilliantly 
carried  out.  Mrs.  Erlynne,  reinforced  with  the  money 
which  Lord  Windermere  pays  her  in  large  installments, 
takes  a  house  in  May  fair,  sets  up  a  carriage,  and  be- 
gins to  make  her  way  into  society.  At  the  opening 
of  the  play  this  has  been  going  on  for  six  months,  and 
all  London  is  talking  of  the  strange  infatuation  of  Lord 


120  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Windermere,  so  unlike  anything  ever  heard  of  him  in 
all  his  life  before.  Lady  Windermere  hears  of  it,  in- 
evitably, of  course  —  is  frantic  with  jealousy,  of  course 
—  and  the  play  is  ready  to  begin. 

Obviously,  this  is  good  material  for  any  kind  of 
play.  It  not  only  avoids  the  hackneyed  and  the  stereo- 
typed, but  brings  about  spontaneously  many  dramatic 
scenes  and  situations,  motiving  constantly  those  ironic 
speeches  by  means  of  which  the  characters  dupe  and 
bewilder  one  another,  while  they  delight  the  audience. 
Then  it  is  clear  that  there  will  be  much  inevitable  sus- 
pense, tension  and  climactic  pressure. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  that  although  we 
have  excellent  comedy  fashioned  out  of  this  plot, 
almost  any  other  kind  of  play  might  be  constructed, 
if  the  incidents  were  viewed  from  a  different  angle  and 
commented  on  in  a  different  spirit. 

For  instance,  the  materials  of  tragedy  are  here. 
The  danger  of  breaking  up  a  household  and  wrecking 
two  lives  is  surely  a  tragic  matter.  So  then,  by  taking 
the  serious  view  of  all  details  from  the  beginning,  by 
making  it  clear  that  the  characters  are  all  foredoomed, 
and  by  reaching  the  disastrous  ending,  which  in  the 
play  as  it  stands  is  so  narrowly  avoided  (such  narrow 
escapes  are  often  made  in  high  comedy),  we  might  easily 
have  tragedy.  Only  the  treatment  and  the  whole  view 
would  have  to  be  altered  from  the  first. 

As  for  farce,  the  materials  for  that  are  here  too. 
Imagine,  for  example,  all  London  society  agog  because 
the  sedate  Lord  Windermere,  who  hitherto  has  lived 
above  fear  and  above  reproach,  is  constantly  calling 
upon  this  brilliant  unknown.  Imagine  Lady  Winder- 
mere frantic  over  the  scandal.  Imagine  great  excite- 
ment  and   commotion,   all  working  up   absurdly  to   a 


HIGH    COMEDY  121 

denouement  which  discovers  that,  after  all,  Mrs.  Erlynne 
is  Lord  Windermere's  mother-in-law  !  If  that  were  done 
in  the  farcical  manner,  the  play  might  be  very  good 
farce;  only  the  whole  spirit  would  have  to  be  different 
from  the  beginning. 

Then  it  could  be  made  into  a  distinctively  sex  play, 
wbich  it  is  not.  Comedy  is  seldom  distinctively  prob- 
lematic. 

To  shape  a  problem  play  out  of  it,  all  that  would 
be  necessary  would  be  to  make  Lord  Windermere  fall 
in  love  with  this  brilliant  and  beautiful  woman,  so 
strikingly  contrasted  with  his  unsophisticated  little 
wife  —  to  make  him  infatuated  with  her,  and  further- 
more, to  make  her  fall  in  love  with  him,  so  that  she 
is  torn  asunder  between  the  alternatives  of  giving  up 
her  lover  or  destroying  her  daughter's  home.  Now, 
if  this  were  adroitly  done  with  intent  to  make  the 
audience  sympathize  all  round,  and  not  quite  know 
which  side  it  was  on  or  whose  part  to  take,  that  would 
be  a  problem  play. 

Finally,  it  could  very  easily  be  treated  as  melodrama. 
For  that  purpose  there  should  be  no  sharp  insight  into 
character  —  and  there  is,  in  the  play  as  it  stands,  the 
finest  possible  differentiation  of  character.  For  melo- 
drama, it  should  be  made  to  appear  that  everything 
happened  merely  by  a  series  of  chances  or  mischances, 
till  in  the  end  dire  disaster  descended  upon  everybody 
like  a  bolt  out  of  the  blue.  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine 
melodramatic  treatment. 

Comedic  Use  of  the  Material 

Coming  now  to  the  play  as  it  is  —  high  comedy. 
Having    shown    that    the    material    is    not    treated    us 


122  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

tragedy,  nor  as  farce,  nor  as  problem  play,  nor  as 
melodrama,  it  remains  to  show  just  how  it  is  treated, 
in  order  that  the  result  may  be  such  very  good  comedy 
as  we  in  effect  have. 

First,  we  notice  that  Lady  Windermere,  in  the  play 
as  we  have  it,  is  made  a  distinctly  comedic  character. 
That  is,  she  has  evident  limitations  which  she  ought 
to  break  over,  certain  conceits  which  she  ought  to  get 
rid  of,  and  certain  illusions  which  are  doing  her  no 
good  in  this  queer  world  in  which  we  all  live.  She 
is  very  sweet,  very  childlike,  very  innocent.  But  there 
is  little  moral  strength  in  her  sweetness,  as  indeed  she 
finds  out  to  her  own  dismay  before  the  play  is  over; 
her  childlikeness  is  sometimes  nothing  better  than 
childishness ;  and  her  innocence  is,  as  Cayley  Drummle 
would  say,  that  least  admirable  kind  of  innocence  for 
men  and  women  who  have  reached  maturity,  the  kind 
that  is  based  on  ignorance. 

We  observe  further  that  the  whole  point  of  the  plot 
is  to  show  that  Lady  Windermere's  character  is 
changed.  Beyond  that,  little  happens  in  the  play. 
Everything  else  and  everybody  else  is  left  pretty  much 
unchanged.  From  the  first,  all  lines  tend  toward  this 
comedic  effect. 

One  of  Lady  Windermere's  illusions  or  delusions 
she  is  not  responsible  for  —  that  connected  with  her 
mother.  Perhaps  it  was  inevitable  that  she  should 
be  made  to  believe  that  her  mother  was  dead;  but 
the  cherishing  of  her  mother's  miniature,  and  the  de- 
lusion that  her  mother's  spirit  is  her  guardian 
angel,  when  as  a  matter  of  fact  her  mother  aban- 
doned her  without  a  pang,  and  remembered  her  al- 
ways as  a  fright  in  flannel  —  that  preposterous 
delusion,   which    one    hardly   knows    whether    to    con- 


HIGH    COMEDY  123 

sider  ridiculous  or  pathetic,  might  perhaps  have  been 
prevented. 

But  her  real  weakness  is  shown  in  her  colloquy  with 
Lord  Darlington  in  the  first  act.  He  is  much  in  love 
with  her,  and  pays  her  many  compliments,  and  she 
remonstrates  with  him. 

Lady  W.  You  think  I  am  a  Puritan,  I  suppose. 
Well,  I  have  something  of  the  Puritan  in  me.  I  was 
brought  up  like  that.  I  always  lived  with  my  father's 
eldest  sister.  She  was  stern  to  me,  but  she  taught  me, 
what  the  world  is  forgetting,  the  difference  between 
what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong.  She  allowed  of  no 
compromise.  I  allow  none.  .  .  .  Nowadays  people 
seem  to  look  on  life  as  a  speculation.  It  is  not  a  specu- 
lation. It  is  a  sacrament.  Its  ideal  is  love.  Its  puri- 
fication is  sacrifice. 

Lord  D.  I  think  life  is  too  complex  a  thing  to  be 
settled  by  these  hard  and  fast  rules. 

Lady  W.  If  we  had  hard  and.  fast  rules,  we  should 
find  life  much  more  simple.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  talk  so 
trivially  about  life? 

Lord  D.  Because  I  think  that  life  is  far  too  im- 
portant a  thing  ever  to  talk  seriously  about  it. 

At  the  close  of  the  act  Lord  Windermere  comes  in 
and  asks.  Lady  Windermere  to  invite  INIrs.  Erlynne  to 
her  birthday  party,  whicli  is  to  take  place  that  evening. 

Lord  W.  Won't  you  help  a  woman  who  is  trying  to 
get  back? 

Lady  W.  No !  If  a  woman  really  repents,  she  never 
wishes  to  return  to  the  society  that  has  made  or  seen 
her  ruin. 

WTiether  Lady  Windermere  is  wholly  right  in  such 
lines  as  these,  or  wholly  wrong,  or  partly  right  and 
partly  wrong,  does  not  for  tlie  moment  matter.     The 


124  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

point  to  be  noted  is  that  she  is  speaking  artificially, 
insincerely,  from  the  lip  only. 

At  the  opening  of  the  fourth  act  we  find  Lady 
Windermere  in  soliloquy. 

Lady  W.  There  is  a  bitter  irony  in  things,  a  bitter 
irony  in  the  way  we  talk  of  good  and  bad  women. 
Oh,  what  a  lesson !  .  .  .  I  don't  think  now  that  people 
can  be  divided  into  the  good  and  the  bad,  as  though 
there  were  two  separate  races  or  creations.  What  are 
called  good  women  may  have  terrible  things  in  them, 
mad  moods  of  recklessness,  assertion,  jealousy,  sin. 
Bad  women,  as  they  are  termed,  may  have  in  them 
sorrow,  repentance,  pity,  sacrifice.  .  .  .  There  is  the 
same  world  for  all  of  us,  and  good  and  evil,  sin  and 
innocence,  go  through  it  hand  in  hand.  To  shut  one's 
eyes  to  half  of  life  that  one  may  live  securely,  is  as 
though  one  blinded  oneself  that  one  might  walk  with 
more  safety  in  a  land  of  pit  and  precipice.  .  .   . 

She  has  become  more  sincere,  more  honest  with  her- 
self, less  artificial.  High  comedy  has  reached  one  of 
its  most  distinctive  and  effective  culminations. 

There  is  a  sharp  and  dramatic  antithesis  between 
the  two  most  important  women  in  this  play.  Lady 
Windermere  is  a  good  woman  with  the  possibility  of 
wrong  in  her  nature,  partly  because  she  is  not  over- 
strong,  and  partly  because  she  goes  about  with  her 
head  in  the  clouds.  Mrs.  Erlynne  is  what  the  world 
calls  a  bad  woman,  because  at  a  critical  moment  in  her 
youth  she  made  the  lower  choice  instead  of  the  higher. 
But  she  has  the  possibility  of  good  in  her,  since  she 
is  always  honest  with  herself  and  is  capable  of  the 
utmost  self-sacrifice  and  unselfishness.  This  she  proves 
when,  in  a  crisis  involving  another's  safety  and  good 
name,   she  instantly,  without  a  moment's  thought   of 


HIGH    COMEDY  125 

herself,  makes  a  difficult  higher  choice  and  then  abides 
by  her  impulsive  action,  though  it  wrecks  all  her  hopes 
of  "  getting  back." 


The  Setting 

Before  outlining  the  play  in  full,  we  may  observe 
how  the  atmosphere  is  created. 

It  is  important  to  get  a  distinct  impression  of  the 
setting  of  this  play,  not  only  because  it  helps  to  under- 
stand the  action  as  it  goes  forward,  but  because  it 
shows  just  what  a  stupid,  vapid,  hard  and  worldly 
kind  of  society  Mrs.  Erlynne  eloped  out  of  twenty 
years  before  the  play  opens.  The  creation  of  atmos- 
phere here  is  absolutely  a  stroke  of  genius;  or  better 
still,  many  adroit  strokes  of  genius. 

First  should  be  mentioned  Lady  Berwick  and  her  in- 
genuous young  daughter,  Agatha,  who  has  just  come 
out.  Ever  since  the  play  first  saw  the  light,  twenty 
years  ago,  everybody  who  knows  it  has  laughed  over 
Agatha,  who  says  not  one  word  throughout  the  play 
but  "  Yes,  Mamma,"  ending  with  the  climactic  answer 
which  she  makes  when  her  mother  asks  her  what  she 
said  to  the  rich  Australian's  proposal.  That  answer  is, 
"  Yes,  Mamma."  And  somehow,  one  constantly  feels 
that  Agatha  is  less  ingenuous  than  she  appears. 

In  the  first  act,  Agatha  comes  with  her  mother  to 
call  upon  Lady  Windermere, 

As  the  Duchess  is  about  to  repeat  the  rumors  in 
society  regarding  Lord  Windermere,  she  wishes  Agatha 
to  be  out  of  hearing.  Hence  ensues  the  following 
colloquy : 

Duchess  of  B.     Agatha,  dear! 

Agatha.     Yes,  Mannna. 


126  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


Duchess  of  B.  Will  you  go  and  look  over  the  photo- 
graph album  that  I  see  there? 

Agatha.    Yes,  Mamma. 

Duchess  of  B.  Dear  girl!  She  is  so  fond  of  pho- 
tographs of  Switzerland.  Such  a  pure  taste,  I 
think. 

As  the  gossip  proceeds: 

Duchess  of  B.     Agatha,  dear ! 

Agatha.    Yes,  Mamma. 

Duchess  of  B.  Will  you  go  out  on  the  terrace  and 
look  at  the  sunset? 

Agatha.    Yes,  Mamma. 

Duchess  of  B.  Sweet  girl!  So  devoted  to  sunsets! 
Shows  such  refinement  of  feeling,  does  it  not?  After 
all,  there's  nothing  like  natui'c,  is  there? 

Then,  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  act: 

Duchess  of  B.  Mr.  Hopper  is  very  late.  You  have 
kept  those  five  dances  for  him,  Agatha? 

Agatha.     Yes,  Mamma. 

Duchess  of  B.  The  last  two  dances  you  must  pass 
on  the  terrace  with  Mr.  Hopper.  (Enter  Mr. 
Hopper.) 

Hopper.     I  should  like  to  dance  with  Lady  Agatha, 

Duchess. 

Duchess  of  B.  Well,  I  hope  she  has  a  dance  left. 
Have  you  got  a  dance  left,  Agatha? 

Agatha.     Yes,  Mamma. 

Duchess  of  B.     The  next  one? 

Agatha.     Yes,  Mamma. 

When  Agatha  and  Mr.  Hopper  come  in  from  the 
terrace : 

Duchess  of  B.    Agatha,  dear ! 

Agatha.     Yes,  Mamma. 

Duchess  of  B.     Did  Mr.  Hopper  definitely  — 


HIGH    COMEDY  127 

Agatha.     Yes,  Mamma. 

Duchess  of  B,  And  what  answer  did  jou  give  him, 
dear  child? 

Agatha.     Yes,  Mamma. 

Duchess  of  B.  My  dear  one!  You  always  say  the 
right  thing. 

Possibly  Mrs.  Erljmne  was  disposed  of  in  just  such 
a  way  by  an  ambitious  mother.  If  so,  it  cannot  be 
thought  strange  that  she  took  her  marriage  a  shade 
less  seriously  than  if  she  had  been  allowed  to  act  and 
speak  like  a  human  being.  The  manage  de  convenance 
is  responsible  for  a  great  deal ;  and  it  is  not  indigenous 
to  Europe. 

A  further  atmospheric  effect,  even  more  trivial,  is 
created  in  the  second  act.  The  scene  is  the  ball  room, 
and  Lady  Windermere's  birthday  party  is  going  on. 
This  is  always  a  difficult  kind  of  scene  to  manage.  In 
fact,  it  is  said  that  a  ball  is  as  hard  to  stage  as  a 
battle.  In  this  case  we  see  merely  the  part  of  the 
drawing  room  where  the  guests  are  received.  The 
ball  room  opens  out  on  one  side,  and  an  illuminated 
terrace  on  the  other.  By  way  of  hitting  off  the  style 
of  conversation  prevalent  at  a  London  crush  —  or  a 
crush  anywhere  else,  for  the  matter  of  that  —  and 
hitting  it  off  in  a  half  dozen  short  speeches,  taking 
only  two  or  three  minutes  of  time,  could  anything 
be  better  than  this? 

Enter  Mr.  Dumby,  furnished  with  one  serviceable 
remark. 

Mr.  Dumhij.  Good  evening,  Lady  Stutficld.  I  sup- 
pose this  will  be  the  last  ball  of  the  season. 

T.nd?/  S.  I  suppose  so,  Mr.  Dumby.  It  's  been  a 
delightful  season,  hasn't  it? 

Mr.    Dumby.       Quite    delightful!       Good    evening. 


128  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Duchess.  I  suppose  this  will  be  the  last  ball  of  the 
season. 

Duchess  of  B.  I  suppose  so,  INIr.  Dumby.  It  has 
been  a  very  dull  season,  has  n't  it? 

Mr.  Dumhy.     Dreadfully  dull!     Dreadfully  dull! 

Mrs.  Coxcper-Cowper.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Dumby. 
I  suppose  this  will  be  the  last  ball  of  the  season? 

Mr.  Dumby.  Oh,  I  think  not.  There  '11  probably 
be  two  more. 

At  the  close  of  the  second  act  Lord  Darlington 
makes  a  speech,  much  more  serious  than  these,  which 
also  helps  to  create  the  atmosphere.  Lady  Winder- 
mere, observing  the  attentions  which  her  husband  is 
paying  to  Mrs.  Erlynne,  has  become  frantic  with  jeal- 
ousy, and  Lord  Darlington,  who  is  about  to  leave  Lon- 
don that  night,  urges  her,  in  one  of  the  most  dramatic 
scenes  in  the  play,  to  fly  with  him. 

Lord  Darlington.  You  once  said  you  would  make 
no  compromise  with  things.  Make  none  now.  Be 
brave!     Be  yourself! 

Lady  Windermere.  I  am  afraid  of  being  myself. 
Let  me  think !  Let  me  wait !  My  husband  may  return 
to  me. 

Lord  Darlington.  And  you  would  take  him  back! 
You  are  not  what  I  thought  you  were.  You  are  just 
the  same  as  every  other  woman.  You  would  stand  any- 
thing rather  than  face  the  censure  of  a  world,  whose 
praise  you  would  despise.  In  a  week  you  will  be  driv- 
ing with  this  woman  in  the  Park.  She  will  be  your  con- 
stant guest  —  your  dearest  friend.  You  would  endure 
anything  rather  than  break  with  one  blow  this  mon- 
strous tie.  You  are  right.  You  have  no  courage; 
none! 

By  means  of  these  three  brief  scenes,  two  of  them 


HIGH    COMEDY  129 


merely  trivial,  and  the  last  one  very  serious,  the  atmos- 
phere is  created.  The  spectator  in  the  theater  some- 
times speaks  of  atmosphere  artificially,  but  to  the  actor 
of  experience  and  high  ideals  it  is  something  real  and 
tangible. 

Building  the  Play 

Coming  now  to  consider  the  play  more  minutely: 
The  name  is  well  chosen.  The  fan  is  simply  one  of 
the  properties,  involving  from  beginning  to  end  occa- 
sional important  stage  business.  The  best  thing  about 
the  name  is  that,  besides  being  truthful  and  significant, 
it  plainly  indicates  comedy.  Tragedy  could  not  well 
be  built  around  a  fan.  And  on  the  whole,  a  clear  indi- 
cation of  the  style  of  the  play  is  desirable,  rather  than 
otherwise,  in  the  name. 

The  date  is  the  time  of  writing,  twenty  years  ago. 

The  length  of  the  time  of  action  is  from  five  o'clock 
one  afternoon  to  half-past  one  the  next  afternoon  — 
less  than  twenty-four  hours.  In  this  respect  the  play 
is  very  modem. 

There  are  three  stage  sets,  elaborate  and  costly. 

There  are  sixteen  characters,  including  two  servants. 
This  is  economical,  remarkably  so  considering  that  the 
London  season  is  on,  and  the  setting  of  the  play  is 
very  social.  To  give  an  impression  of  such  extensive 
social  life  with  so  few  characters  is  a  marked  case  of 
skill  in  overcoming  difficulties. 

In  Act  I  Lady  Windermere  and  Lord  Darlington  are 
discovered  in  the  morning  room  of  Lord  Windermere's 
house.  Lord  Darlington  takes  up  a  fan  and  admires 
it.  She  says,  "  It  is  my  husband's  birthday  present  to 
me.     It  has  my  name  on  it."     He  pays  her  many  com- 


130  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

pliments.  She  remonstrates  with  him.  Finally  he 
replies  with  the  famous  mot  d'esprit  which  is  always 
quoted  whenever  this  play  is  mentioned: 

"  I  can  resist  everything  except  temptation." 

Enter  the  Duchess  of  Berwick  and  Agatha.  Pres- 
ently, exit  Lord  Darlington.  The  Duchess  of  Berwick, 
being  a  kind  friend  of  Lady  Windermere's,  rehearses 
to  her  the  scandal  that  is  rife  in  London  in  regard  to 
Lord  Windermere. 

Duchess  of  B.  It 's  quite  true,  my  dear.  The  whole 
of  London  knows  it.  That 's  why  I  felt  it  was  better 
to  come  and  talk  to  you,  and  advise  you  to  take  Winder- 
mere away  at  once  on  a  holiday,  where  he  will  have 
something  to  amuse  him,  and  where  you  can  watch  him 
all  day  long.  I  assure  you,  my  dear,  that  on  several 
occasions  after  I  was  first  married,  I  had  to  pretend 
to  be  very  ill,  and  was  obliged  to  drink  the  most  un- 
pleasant mineral  waters,  merely  to  get  Berwick  out  of 
town.  Though  I  am  bound  to  say  he  never  gave  away 
any  large  sums  of  money  to  anybody.  He  is  far  too 
high  principled  for  that. 

Lady  Windermere  is  left  in  great  distress  of  mind. 
Not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  she  goes  to  her  husband's 
desk  and  examines  his  bank  book.  Finding  no  record 
of  money  paid  to  Mrs.  Erl3rnne,  she  gives  a  sigh  of 
relief.  But  as  she  returns  the  book,  she  discovers 
another,  which  is  locked  or  sealed.  She  tears  off  the 
cover  and  finds  record  of  many  hundreds  of  pounds 
paid  to  Mrs.  Erlynne. 

Enter  Lord  Windermere.  She  accuses  him ;  he  de- 
nies that  anything  is  wrong,  and  then  takes  this  most 
inopportune  moment  to  beg  Lady  Windermere  to  in- 
vite Mrs.  Erlynne  for  that  evening.  She  refuses;  and 
then  he  himself  sends  a  note. 


HIGH    COMEDY  131 

Lady  Windermere.  If  that  woman  crosses  my  thresh- 
old, I  shall  strike  her  across  the  face  with  my  fan. 
(Exit) 

Lord  Windermere.  I  dare  not  tell  her  who  this 
woman  is.     The  shame  would  kill  her. 

This  is  the  only  serious  act-ending  in  the  play. 

Act  II  takes  place  the  same  night,  while  the  birthday 
party  is  in  progress.  Being  broken  up  into  fleeting 
scenes  and  colloquies,  it  is  difficult  to  describe. 

Enter,  first  the  Duchess  of  Berwick  and  Agatha; 
then  the  rich  Australian,  ]Mr.  Hopper;  then  Mr.  Dumby 
with  his  one  serviceable  remark.  There  is  a  brief 
scene  between  Lord  Augustus  Lorton  and  Lord  Winder- 
mere, in  which  Lord  Augustus  inquires  in  regard  to 
Mrs.  Erlynne's  social  standing.  Lord  Windermere 
makes  no  comment,  except  to  say  that  she  is  coming 
to  the  party.  Lord  Augustus  exclaims,  "  Why  did  n't 
you  tell  me  that  before.''  It  would  have  saved  me  a 
heap  of  worry." 

Then  Mrs.  Erlynne  makes  a  striking  entrance,  look- 
ing, as  one  of  the  guests  maliciously  remarks,  like  an 
edition  de  luxe  of  a  wicked  French  novel,  meant  for 
the  English  market.  Lady  Windermere  drops  her  fan 
in  agitation.  Mrs.  Erlynne  recovers  it,  and  restores 
it  to  her. 

This  is  a  great  scene,  because  it  is  necessary  for 
]Mrs.  Erlynne  to  do  and  say  just  the  right  thing,  to 
avoid  self-consciousness,  and  to  carry  everything  off 
fjuickly,  lightly,  gracefully,  and  without  effort. 

She  asks  Cecil  Graham  to  introduce  her  to  his  aunt, 
Lady  Jedburgh,  an  elderly  dowager ;  and  on  being  pre- 
sented, makes  one  of  her  most  politic  speeches. 

Mrs.  Erlynne.  So  pleased  to  meet  you.  Lady  Jed- 
burgh.    Your  nephew  and  I  arc  great  friends.     I  am 


132  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

so  much  interested  in  his  poHtical  career.  I  think  he 
is  sure  to  be  a  wonderful  success.  He  thinks  hke  a 
Tory,  and  talks  like  a  Radical,  and  that  is  so  impor- 
tant nowadays.  He  is  such  a  brilliant  talker,  too. 
But  we  all  know  from  whom  he  inherits  that.  Lord 
Allandale  was  saying  to  me  only  yesterday  in  the 
Park  that  Mr.  Graham  talks  almost  as  well  as  his  aunt. 

Then  she  passes  on,  observing  what  a  bore  it  is  to 
be  civil  to  these  old  dowagers.  And  we  find,  before  the 
end  of  the  act,  that  Lady  Jedburgh  has  invited  Mrs. 
Erlynne  to  luncheon  the  next  day,  to  meet  the  Bishop! 

Mrs.  Erlynne  takes  frequent  occasion  to  be  seen  in 
confidential  conversation  with  Lord  Windermere.  Lady 
Windermere  becomes  more  and  more  jealous.  Lord 
Windermere  tries  to  find  opportunity  to  speak  with  her, 
but  she  avoids  him.  Lord  Darlington  then  makes  his 
plea  to  Lady  Windermere  to  leave  London  with  him 
that  night.  She  refuses.  He  bids  her  good-by,  and 
exits.  Then  comes  a  brief  scene  in  which  Lord  Augustus 
proposes  to  Mrs.  Erlynne,  who  puts  him  off,  telling 
him  she  will  give  him  her  answer  next  morning.  Then 
follows  a  scene  in  which  Mrs.  Erlynne  demands  a  settle- 
ment from  Lord  Windermere.  This,  being  hard  and 
worldly,  is  a  cue  for  the  next  scene,  in  which  Mrs. 
Erlynne  discovers  that  Lady  Windermere  has  forsaken 
her  home,  leaving  behind  her  a  letter  addressed  to  Lord 
Windermere.  This  letter  Mrs.  Erlynne  opens,  and  then 
falls  into  a  soliloquy,  which  recalls  the  great  climax  in 
"  Ghosts." 

Mrs.  Erlynne.  Oh,  how  terrible !  The  same  words 
that  twenty  years  ago  I  wrote  to  her  father!  and  how 
bitterly  I  have  been  punished  for  it !  No ;  my  punish- 
ment, my  real  punishment,  is  tonight,  is  now ! 

Mrs.  Erlynne  then  reports  to  Lord  Windermere  that 


HIGH    COMEDY  133 


his  wife,  being  very  tired,  has  gone  to  her  room  and 
does  not  wish  to  be  disturbed.  (Exit  Lord  Winder- 
mere. .  .  .  Enter  Tuppy.) 

Mrs.  Erlynne.  Lord  Augustus,  hsten  to  me.  You 
are  to  take  Windermere  to  your  club  at  once  and  keep 
him  there  as  long  as  possible     Do  you  understand? 

Lord  A.  But  you  said  you  wished  me  to  keep  early 
hours. 

Mrs.  Erlynne.  Do  what  I  tell  you !  Do  what  I  tell 
you! 

Lord  A.    And  my  reward? 

Mrs.  Erlynne.  Your  reward!  Oh,  ask  me  that  to- 
morrow. But  don't  let  Windermere  out  of  your  sight 
tonight.  If  you  do  I  will  never  forgive  you.  I  will 
never  speak  to  you  again.  I  '11  have  nothing  to  do 
with  you.  Remember  you  are  to  keep  Windermere 
at  your  club,  and  don't  let  him  come  back  tonight. 
(Exit.) 

Lord  A.  Well,  really,  I  might  be  her  husband  al- 
ready.    Positively  I  might. 

This  ending  is  noticeable  for  .two  reasons :  first, 
because  it  is  humorous,  as  a  comedy  act-ending  gen- 
erally should  be,  no  matter  how  serious  the  act  as  a 
whole.  And  then,  since  it  indicates  that  ]Mrs.  Erlynne 
intends  to  follow  Lady  Windermere  and  bring  her  home 
if  possible,  it  sends  the  curtain  down  upon  dramatic 
suspense. 

In  Act  III  we  find  ourselves  in  Lord  Darlington's 
rooms.  Lady  Windermere  is  alone,  soliloquizing  in 
a  speech  so  long  as  to  mark  the  play  not  distinctly 
modern.  From  it  we  gather  that  she  is  irresolute  and, 
above  all,  terrified.  Enter  ]\Irs,  Erlynne.  Tlien  follows 
the  spiritual  climax  of  the  play.  ]\Irs,  Erlynne,  in  an 
impassioned  speech,  orders  Lady  Windermere  to  return 


134  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

to  her  home,  to  her  husband,  and  above  all  to  her 
child,  saying,  "  If  he  was  harsh  to  you,  you  must 
stay  with  your  child.  If  he  ill-treated  you,  you  must 
stay  with  your  child.  If  he  abandoned  you,  your  place 
is  with  your  child."  At  last  Lady  Windermere,  hold- 
ing out  her  hands  helplessly,  cries,  "  Take  me  home ! 
Take  me  home !  " 

At  this  point  we  feel  the  mysticism  so  common  in 
the  modern  play.  It  is  evident  that  Lady  Windermere 
is  conscious  of  a  dim,  overshadowing,  mysterious  influ- 
ence which  she  must  obey.  This  strange  spell,  inex- 
plicable to  her,  but  which  the  audience  knows  to  be 
maternal,  controls  her  to  the  end  of  the  play. 

Just  as  they  are  about  to  leave,  voices  are  heard  out- 
side. They  are  both  panic  struck,  but  Mrs.  Erlynne 
keeps  her  head.  She  bids  Lady  Windermere  hide  be- 
hind the  heavy  window  curtains  near  the  entrance  door, 
so  that  she  can  make  her  escape  if  opportunity  offers. 
Mrs.  Erlynne  herself  exits  into  the  inner  room.  The 
birthday  fan  is  left  on  the  sofa. 

Enter  Lord  Darlington,  Lord  Windermere,  Lord 
Augustus,  Mr.  Dumby  and  Cecil  Graham.  It  develops 
that  Tuppy,  obedient  to  orders,  has  persuaded  Lord 
Windermere  to  prolong  the  evening  after  the  club 
closed.  There  are  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  of  the  bril- 
liant conversation  in  which  the  play  abounds,  when 
Cecil  Graham,  spying  the  fan,  exhibits  it  to  Lord 
Augustus  as  rather  a  joke  on  their  romantic  host. 
Then,  when  Lord  Windermere  says  he  really  must  be  go- 
ing, Tuppy  seeks  to  detain  him  by  showing  the  trophy 
over  which  they  are  laughing.  Lord  Windermere,  in- 
stantly recognizing  the  fan,  rounds  upon  Darlington, 
asking  how  it  came  there,  demanding  an  explanation 
and    threatening    to    search   the    rooms.      Darlington, 


HIGH    COMEDY  135 

surmising  that  Lady  Windermere  is  somewhere  con- 
cealed, strives  excitedly  to  prevent  the  search.  In  the 
midst  of  the  commotion,  Mrs.  Erlynne,  who  has  over- 
heard the  threat  and  who  fears  for  Lady  Windermere, 
opens  the  door  and  calmly  stands  before  them  all. 
As  they  start  and  turn  in  her  direction.  Lady  Winder- 
mere slips  from  behind  the  curtains  and  glides  from 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Erlynne  (to  Lord  Windermere).  I  am  afraid 
I  took  one  of  your  wife's  fans  in  mistake  for  my  own 
when  I  was  leaving  your  house  last  night.  I  am  so 
sorry.  (Lord  Windermere  looks  at  her  in  contempt. 
Lord  Darlington  in  mingled  astonishment  and  anger. 
Lord  Augustus  turns  away.) 

The  final  act  is  one  of  the  best  in  modern  comedy. 
Seldom,  indeed,  after  the  climaxes  are  left  behind,  is 
the  last  act  brought  on  with  so  much  dramatic  uncer- 
tainty. The  time  is  the  next  day;  the  scene,  as  in 
the  first  act.  Lady  Windermere's  morning  room. 

It  is  clear  that  Lady  Windermere  must  be  in  fearful 
doubt  as  to  what  happened  in  Lord  Darlington's  room 
after  she  made  her  escape.  It  is  equally  clear  that 
Lord  Windermere  must  be  terrified  lest  Mrs.  Erlynne, 
in  desperation,  may  reveal  herself  to  her  daughter.  It 
is  clear,  also,  that  INIrs.  Erlynne  must  be  fearful  lest 
Lady  Windermere  may  spoil  everything  by  some  hys- 
terical confession  to  Lord  Windermere.  So  great  is 
the  tension  that  ironic  speeches,  of  a  kind  rarely  found 
near  the  end  of  a  play,  come  thick  and  fast. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  Lady  Windermere  is  alone. 
As  Lord  Windermere  enters  she  starts  in  alarm;  but 
he  comes  in  quite  as  usual,  and  suggests  going  down 
to  the  country  for  a  rest.  Lady  Winderiiierc  replies 
that  she  must  sec  Mrs.  Erlynne  before  leaving  town. 


136  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Lord  Windermere  tries  to  dissuade  her,  and  finally  ex- 
claims, "  Margaret,  if  you  knew  where  Mrs.  Erlynne 
went  last  night  after  she  left  this  house,  you  would 
not  sit  in  the  same  room  with  her." 

To  the  consteiTiation  of  both,  Mrs.  Erlynne  is  an- 
nounced. Her  entrance,  as  always  throughout  the  play, 
is  dramatic.  She  comes  in  unconcernedly,  returns  the 
fan,  and  announces  that  she  is  leaving  England  perma- 
nently to  live  abroad.  But  she  asks  as  a  favor  that 
she  may  take  with  her  a  photograph  of  Lady  Winder- 
mere and  her  child. 

Lady  Windermere  exits  to  find  the  picture.  Then 
Lord  Windermere,  exasperated  beyond  endurance  at 
Mrs.  Erlynne's  triviality,  threatens  to  tell  his  wife 
everything.  Mrs.  Erlynne  begs,  even  commands  him 
to  hold  his  tongue  forever. 

Mrs.  Erlynne.  If  I  said  to  you  that  I  cared  for  her, 
perhaps  loved  her  even  —  you  would  sneer  at  me, 
would  n't  you.f* 

Lord  Windermere.  I  should  feel  it  was  not  true. 
A  mother's  love  means  devotion,  unselfishness,  sacrifice. 
What  could  you  know  of  such  things? 

Then  there  is  a  brief  interview  between  the  two 
women  alone,  in  which  Lady  Windermere  cries,  "  You 
saved  me  last  night,  but  I  can't  let  you  think  that  I 
am  going  to  accept  this  sacrifice.  It  is  too  great.  I  am 
going  to  tell  my  husband  everything.     It  is  my  duty." 

Mrs.  Erlynne  pledges  her  never  to  reveal  the  events 
of  the  previous  evening,  and  Lady  Windermere,  mys- 
teriously influenced  as  before,  gives  her  word,  adding 
the  most  bitterly  ironic  speech  of  all. 

"  Only  once  in  my  life  I  have  forgotten  my  own 
mother  —  that  was  last  night.  Oh,  if  I  had  remem- 
bered her,  I  should  not  have  been  so  foolish,  so  wicked." 


HIGH    COMEDY  137 

This  brings  the  play  to  an  end,  except  for  the  in- 
evitable comedic  tag,  especially  necessary  after  an  act 
that  has  so  closely  bordered  on  tragedy. 

Lord  Augustus  comes  in  for  a  morning  call,  starts 
at  sight  of  Mrs.  Erlynne  and  greets  her  coldly.  Mrs. 
Erlynne  asks  liim  to  see  her  to  her  carriage,  gives  him 
the  fatal  fan  to  carry  (she  has  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
keep  it)  and  goes  out  airily  and  gracefully. 

After  a  few  moments,  Lord  Augustus  returns  to 
make  the  following  preposterous  speech: 

"  Windermere,  she  has  explained  everything!  (Final 
consternation  of  Lord  and  Lady  Windermere.)  We 
all  wronged  her  immensely.  It  was  entirely  for  my 
sake  she  went  to  Darlington's  rooms.  Fact  is,  she 
wanted  to  put  me  out  of  suspense,  and  being  told  I 
had  gone  on,  followed  —  naturally  —  frightened  when 
she  heard  a  lot  of  men  coming  in  —  retired  to  the  other 
room  —  I  assure  you,  most  gratifying  to  me,  the  whole 
thing.  We  all  behaved  brutally  to  her.  She  is  just 
the  woman  for  me.  Suits  me  down  to  the  ground. 
All  the  condition  she  makes  is  that  we  live  out  of  Eng- 
land. ..." 

Comedy  well  Exemplified 

If  the  description  of  high  comedy  or  comedy  of 
manners  worked  out  in  the  opening  pages  of  this  chap- 
ter is  in  any  degree  adequate,  then  "  Lady  Winder- 
mere's Fan  "  may  fairly  be  considered  to  exemplify  that 
rare  and  difficult  species  of  play.  For  it  elaborates  a 
conceivable  situjition,  treats  of  social  foibles  and  arti- 
ficialities, stimulates  thought  by  constantly  recurring 
brilliant  lines,  and  succeeds  in  completing  its  dramatic 
design  by  means  of  a  non-ending  or  indeterminate 
close. 


138  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Moliere  the  Model 

In  taking  leave  of  the  subject,  it  need  hardly  be  said 
that  always,  for  comedy  of  manners,  Moliere  is  the 
model.  Nothing  is  more  obvious  than  that  pure,  un- 
mixed comedy,  shading  into  no  other  form,  is  more 
easily  French  than  English.  Our  best  high  comedy 
traces  to  "  Le  Misanthrope  "  rather  than  to  "  Much 
Ado "  or  "  Twelfth  Night."  And  the  reasons  are 
not  far  to  seek. 

When  Moliere  wrote  "  Le  Misanthrope,"  he  had  not 
to  orient  himself  anew  to  get  into  a  more  favorable 
atmosf)here.  Paris  was  the  only  place  and  the  best 
place  for  the  entire  action  of  liis  play.  Then,  Parisians, 
without  any  admixture  of  foreigners  or  natives  from 
far  or  near,  were  quite  as  inevitably  his  characters. 
The  salon  in  Celimene's  house  was  an  all-sufficient  set- 
ting for  his  five  acts.  Having  conceived  the  misan- 
thrope Alceste,  the  rational  optimist  Philinte  as  his 
foil,  the  poetaster  Oronte  to  write  the  bad  verses,  the 
brilliant  Celimene  to  keep  the  school  for  scandal  and 
be  the  undoing  of  her  melancholy  lover,  and  a  few 
other  characters,  among  them  bores,  gossips  and  tuft- 
hunters,  to  create  the  impression  of  a  lively  social  world, 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  do  little  more,  in  rounding 
his  play  to  completion,  than  to  make  them  all  talk  in- 
terminably. He  was  not  tempted  to  borrow  a  plot  or 
any  part  of  one,  because  the  perfectly  created  situation 
was,  as  always  in  high  comedy,  the  strongest  effect  he 
could  hope  to  produce.  He  wrought  the  comedic  quality 
into  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  the  conversation,  in- 
stead of  setting  it  off  in  detached  comic  scenes.  So  the 
whole  play  could  be  unified,  polished  and  finished  to  a 
high  degree  of  dramatic  perfection. 


HIGH    COMEDY  139 

Shakespeare's  courtliest  and  most  elegant  comedy  is 
"  Much  Ado,"  but  the  interrupted  marriage  brings  it 
very  close  to  tragedy,  while  the  comic  town  watch,  so 
preposterously  transplanted  from  London  to  Messina, 
gives  it  a  farcical  side.  Then  Shakespeare,  after  the 
fashion  of  his  time,  neither  kept  the  play  contentedly 
in  England  nor  strove  to  perfect  its  foreign  setting, 
but  compromised  by  making  his  Spaniards  partly  and 
sometimes  wholly  British.  The  scenery  is  both  out- 
doors and  indoors  —  a  hall,  a  street,  a  garden,  a  prison 
and  a  cathedral.  The  plot  is  complicated,  the  dramatic 
effects  exceedingly  varied,  the  comedic  situations  few 
and  scattered. 

Now  Benedick  and  Beatrice,  by  themselves,  are  glori- 
ously comedic,  and  an  Englishman  might  well  challenge 
a  Frenchman  to  match  Benedick's  best  soliloquies  with 
anything  from  Moliere,  or  to  parallel  the  love  scene 
of  the  fourth  act,  strengthened  by  its  outbursts  of  gen- 
erous anger,  with  anything  from  all  the  dramas  of 
France. 

But  if  a  Frenchman  should  criticise  the  play  as  being 
an  inconceivable  mixture  of  the  English  and  the  Span- 
ish, the  inventive  and  the  borrowed,  prose  and  verse, 
tragedy,  comedy  and  farce,  it  would  not  seem  strange 
from  his  point  of  view. 

For  high  comedy,  jMoliere  and  not  Shakespeare  nor 
any  other,  is  the  model. 

La  Bonne  Comedie 

Such  a  play  as  "  Lady  Windermere's  Fan  "  might 
have  been  the  theme  of  some  of  tlie  lines  to  "  La  Bonne 
Comedie,"  recently  written  by  Austin  Dobson. 


140  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

It  lashes  the  vicious,  it  laughs  at  the  fool, 

And  it  brings  all  the  prigs  and  pretenders  to  school. 

Its  thrust,  like  a  rapier's,  though  cutting,  is  clean, 
And  it  pricks  affectation  all  over  the  scene. 

Its  mission  is  neither  to  praise  nor  to  blame; 
Its  weapon  is  ridicule;    Folly,  its  game. 

It  clears  out  the  cobwebs,  it  freshens  the  air; 
And  it  treads  in  the  steps  of  its  master,  Moliere! 


X 

THE   UNITIES    IN    THE    MODERN   PLAY 

Illustrated  hy  "  The  Servant  in  the  House  " 
By  Charles  Rann  Kennedy 

A  STRICT  observance  of  unity  of  time  and  place 
has  become  surprisingly  popular  of  late,  and 
has  been  forced,  most  disastrously  in  some  cases, 
upon  plays  that  are  anything  but  Greek  in  spirit. 
After  all,  unity  of  action  is  the  only  one  of  the  classic 
three  that  really  matters;  and  that  may  be  of  various 
kinds.  Greek  unity  of  action  meant  a  oneness  of  the 
whole,  based  on  simplicity.  With  this,  unity  of  time 
and  place  could  be  easily  combined.  In  the  romantic 
schools,  unity  of  action  meant  another  kind  of  oneness, 
worked  out  of  the  utmost  complexity,  in  which  were 
mingled  old  materials  and  new,  the  tragic  and  the  comic, 
the  present  and  the  past,  the  native  and  the  foreign. 
These  schools  very  naturally  threw  to  the  winds  all  con- 
siderations of  unity  in  time  and  place. 

Modern  realism,  especially  in  the  drama  of  catas- 
trophe, has  returned  in  a  measure  to  the  Greek  sim- 
plicity. But  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  force  even  an 
uncomplicated  plot  to  work  itself  out  in  a  few  hours, 
and  without  change  of  scene,  when  a  little  more  time 
and  one  or  two  changes  of  place  would  make  the  wheels 
move  much  more  easily.     The  long  arm  of  coincidence 


142  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

has  of  late  been  worked  very  hard  in  the  interest  of 
that  violent  compression  of  time  and  strict  limitation  of 
space  which  has  so  unaccountably  commended  itself  to 
the  playwright  of  today. 

"  The  Servant  in  the  House  "  is  sufficiently  Greek 
in  spirit  to  make  the  presei-vation  of  the  unities  effective 
and  unlaborious.  It  would  be  idle  to  line  it  up  with  a 
Greek  tragedy,  even  if  it  were  possible  to  do  so ;  but 
it  is  quite  worth  while  to  look  at  it  from  the  classic 
standpoint,  because  then  only  does  the  admirable  unity 
of  its  action  become  apparent. 

Two  devices  were  used  in  Greek  plays  that  have  long 
since  disappeared  from  dramatic  art.  One  was  the  deus 
ex  niachma  —  the  god  from  the  machine ;  the  other 
was  the  chorus,  with  its  leader  or  spokesman.  The 
machine  was  a  kind  of  crane  that  swung  the  god  out 
over  the  heads  of  the  actors  so  that  he  seemed  to  speak 
from  the  heavens.  It  was  always  when  the  plot  had 
tied  itself  into  a  tight  knot  that  the  god  or  gods  ap- 
peared in  the  empyrean,  and  cut  the  knot  instead  of 
leaving  it  to  disentangle  itself.  This  declaring  the 
sequel  by  supernatural  knowledge  and  will  was  consid- 
ered a  somewhat  undramatic  device;  but  it  is  not  at 
all  to  criticise  the  present  play  that  the  resemblance  is 
indicated. 

Manson  does  not  suddenly  appear  —  he  is  on  the 
stage  when  the  curtain  rises ;  but  the  peremptory  as- 
sertion of  his  supernatural  power  in  the  middle  of  the 
fourth  act,  and  the  authority  with  which  he  turns  the 
action  at  the  climactic  point,  are  suggestive  of  this 
Greek  expedient.  The  plot  is  taken  out  of  the  hands 
of  mere  human  beings,  and  driven  to  its  conclusion  by 
divine  agency. 

The  Greek  chorus  fulfilled  a  very  different  function. 


THE   UNITIES   IN   THE   MODERN   PLAY     143 

It  formed  a  kind  of  link  between  the  audience  and  the 
actors.  It  was  in  the  play  and  yet  out  of  the  play, 
of  the  play  and  yet  not  of  it.  It  was  allied  to  the 
spectators  by  being  made  to  say  what  they  would 
have  said  if  they  had  made  comments  as  the  play  went 
on.  It  was  the  audience  thinking  aloud,  and  meeting 
the  various  incidents  with  just  the  changes  of  feeling 
that  the  play  was  meant  to  cause  in  the  spectators. 

What  allied  the  chorus  to  the  actors  was  that  to  it 
the  protagonist  and  the  antagonist  soliloquized  and 
made  confidences.  And  the  chorus  in  turn  helped  the 
actors,  though  never  by  direct  interference. 

Manson  may  be  viewed  from  this  very  different 
standpoint  also,  for  he  plays  something  like  the  part  of 
a  chorus,  or  the  leader  of  it.  One  thing  that  makes  the 
play  popular  is  that  the  Servant  is  continually  making 
comments  and  reflections  which  the  audience  has  in  mind 
and  would  take  satisfaction  in  uttering  if  it  were  al- 
lowed  to   speak. 

Manson  completes  the  resemblance  by  being  the  con- 
fidant and  helper  of  each  of  the  characters  in  turn; 
first  of  Robert,  then  of  Mary,  then  of  the  vicar,  and 
finally  of  the  vicar's  wife.  He  makes  common  cause 
even  with  the  page  boy,  and  leads  on  the  Bishop  of 
Lancashire   to    reveal   himself   in   mistaken    confidence. 

The  correspondence  to  the  classic  form  is  in  no  de- 
tail very  close,  and  should  not  be  overstated;  but  it  is 
important  to  observe  that  Manson,  controlling  as  is 
his  part  in  the  play,  cannot  fairly  be  considered  the 
protagonist.  The  real  hero  is  a  struggling,  striving 
human  being  —  the  vicar;  and  the  antagonist  who 
baffles  him  and  obstructs  his  highest  endeavors  is 
his  wife. 

It    is   perhaps   because   even   the   suggestion    of   the 


144  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


reincarnation  of  Christ  upon  the  stage  is  startling  and 
arresting  that  Manson  is  so  often  accounted  the 
hero,  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  hero,  but  something  quite  different. 

The  Human  Interest 

The  purely  human  interest  in  the  play  is  of  high 
dramatic  value.  We  may  realize  how  high  by  using  a 
kind  of  eliminating  process  and  proving  to  our  satis- 
faction that  nothing  else  would  do.  There  is,  as  in  most 
plays,  the  desirability  of  using  some  kind  of  love  interest. 
IWould  you,  to  meet  this  necessity,  have  such  motives 
as  jealousy,  unfaithfulness,  revenge?  Would  you  make 
use  of  a  problem  play  motive?  All  these  seem  out  of 
harmony  with  the  rest  of  the  play.  There  is  great  skill 
in  surmounting  this  obstacle,  because  the  conflict  be- 
tween the  vicar  and  his  wife  is  not  only  a  way  out  of 
the  difficulty,  but  a  fine  device  with  real  dramatic  inter- 
est and  the  charm  of  originality.  The  devoted  wife 
—  unselfish,  too,  in  a  sense  —  who  hinders  her  husband 
from  being  honest  with  himself  and  reaching  his  own 
highest  level,  is  all  too  frequently  found  in  life,  though 
she  has  not  often  as  yet  made  her  way  into  literature. 
In  this  play  she  works  the  action  up  to  several  impres- 
sive crises.  Indeed,  the  real  climax  is  not  the  casting 
out  of  the  Bishop  of  Lancashire,  but  rather  the  vicar's 
challenge  to  his  wife  and  her  desperate  reply: 

*'  It  is  God  and  I  against  you,  Martha." 

"  God  and  I  against  you,  William." 

And  perhaps  even  Manson's  sublime  description  of 
the  church  triumphant  is  no  more  memorable  than  the 
vicar's  speech  beginning,  "  Love  is  a  spirit  of  many 
shapes  and  shadows." 


THE   UNITIES   IX   THE   MODERN   PLAY     145 

Unity  in  Simplicity 

Recognizing  then  that  INIanson  is  in  one  sense  se- 
renely detached  from  the  plot,  and  that  the  conflict  be- 
tween the  vicar  and  his  wife  makes  the  action  of  the 
play,  the  Greek  oneness  of  the  whole  becomes  obvious; 
because  the  fate  of  Robert  and  Mary  hangs  so  very 
closely  upon  that  of  the  vicar  and  Martha.  No  sooner 
does  the  vicar  assert  his  truest  and  best  self  in  spite  of 
his  wife,  than  he  is  in  the  greatest  haste  to  acknowledge 
his  brother,  and  restore  the  child  to  her  father.  Here 
then  we  have  five  of  the  seven  characters  drawn  into 
close  and  beautiful  unity.  There  remain  only  the 
Bishop  of  Lancashire  and  Roger,  the  former  to  re- 
enforce  the  worldly-minded  wife  against  her  husband, 
and  the  latter  to  take  the  one  utility  part  in  the  play. 
It  is  unity  in  simplicit}"^,  based  on  the  fundamental 
relationships  of  life  —  those  of  husband  and  wife,  and 
parent  and  child. 

In  unity  of  time  this  play  out-Greeks  the  Greek, 
for  instead  of  stretching  from  sun  to  sun,  it  is  shortened 
almost  to  the  time  of  performance  on  the  stage.  Yet 
the  effect  is  sufficiently  leisurely.  Indeed,  critics  have 
not  been  wanting  to  advise  omitting  certain  speeches 
and  abbreviating  some  of  the  pauses  on  the  stage. 

The  unity  of  place  needs  little  connnent.  Much  is 
gained  by  centering  the  attention  without  disturbance, 
and  nothing  apparently  is  lost. 


XI 

,THE    SOLILOQUY    IN    THE    MODERN    PLAY 

WHENEVER  one  of  the  characters  in  a  play 
falls  into  reminiscence  or  narrates  an  occur- 
rence or  an  experience  at  length,  the  epic  form 
may  be  said  to  appear  or  reappear  in  the  midst  of  the 
dramatic.  In  other  words,  a  certain  part  or  piece  of 
the  story  out  of  which  the  play  is  made  has  escaped 
the  dramatist's  remodeling  and  transforming  touch  and 
retained  its  original  narrative  form. 

Again,  whenever  a  character  in  a  play  impulsively 
cries  aloud  in  solitude,  especially  if  his  speech  be  highly 
emotional,  the  lyric  element  becomes  manifest.  That  is, 
a  certain  phase  of  feeling  or  thought  that  cannot  other- 
wise be  made  clear,  is  recited  directly  at  the  audience 
in  the  form  of  soliloquy,  a  stage  convention  which  is 
in  itself  admittedly  dangerous  to  the  artistic  illusion. 

On  the  whole,  the  modern  drama  seems  to  be  strug- 
gling to  separate  itself  from  both  these  older  forms. 
The  epic  or  narrative  element  began  to  disappear  first, 
and  was  not  very  difficult  to  get  rid  of.  Many  long, 
indirect  speeches  are  now  dropped  from  the  older  plays 
without  being  greatly  missed.  An  illustration  may  be 
found  in  Racine's  "  Phedre,"  a  drama  that  is  in  its 
way  of  such  perfect  workmanship  that  neither  actor 
nor  stage  manager  is  much  tempted  to  meddle  with  it. 
Theramene  recounts  the  death  of  Hippolyte  in  a  long 


SOLILOQUY    IN    THE    MODERN    PLAY     147 

messenger  speech  of  seventy-three  hexameters.  Bern- 
hardt's  version  cuts  out  all  but  two  lines  of  this  brilliant 
piece  of  declamation  —  which  is  so  insecurely  attached 
to  the  body  of  the  play  that  the  action  easily  rounds 
to  a  conclusion  without  it.  Most  of  the  Elizabethan 
plays,  the  form  of  which  has  been  graphically  described 
as  sprawling,  are  greatly  advantaged  by  having  long 
narrative  and  descriptive  speeches  omitted  or  lopped 
off.  And  when  the  playwright  of  today  holds  himself 
to  the  deliberate  purpose  of  conveying  all  necessary 
information  to  the  audience  without  anywhere  block- 
ading the  action  by  putting  in  a  story,  he  often  suc- 
ceeds very  well.  Ingenuity  and  adroitness  are  chiefly 
needed ;  but  these  qualities  are  not  so  hard  to  cultivate 
as  some  others.  Examine  a  modern  play  and  observe 
how  few  speeches  run  over  two  hundred  words.  It  is 
not  merely  that  long  harangues  are  broken  up  by  the 
cheap  device  of  ejecting  into  them  questions  and  ex- 
clamations and  expressions  of  interest  from  without ; 
the  whole  story-telling  expedient  seems  to  have  been 
dispensed  with. 

The  soliloquy,  however,  is  a  different  matter.  It  is 
not  easy  to  drop  a  soliloquy  out  of  any  good  play 
without  causing  confusion  and  disorganization.  Try, 
for  example,  cutting  out  the  twenty  lines  in  which 
Phedre  delivers  her  soul  after  her  jealousy  is  aroused. 
It  at  once  becomes  evident  that  the  speech  has  dramatic 
value,  so  that  omitting  it  would  necessitate  a  great  deal 
of  reconstruction  in  other  parts  of  the  play.  As  for 
wliat  Shakespeare's  tragedies  would  bo  without  their 
soliloquies  —  the  imagination  refuses  to  take  so  labori- 
ous a  flight.  It  is  plain  that  the  lyric  element  cannot, 
like  the  epic,  be  casually  left  out  of  the  older  ])lays ; 
and  upon  examination   it  becomes  quite  as  plain  that 


148  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

when  the  modern  play  determines  not  to  soliloquize  it 
must  do  something  else  in  earnest  to  make  up  for  the 
loss  of  so  useful  a  device. 

The  lyric,  as  we  find  it  in  poetry,  takes  many  forms, 
but  it  has  two  invariable  qualities ;  it  is  emotional  and 
it  is  self-revealing.  The  latter  quality  —  that  of 
illuminating  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  heart  —  is 
the  one  which  the  dramatic  soliloquy  takes  over  for  the 
use  and  behoof  of  the  play.  Every  one  agrees  that  it 
is  a  simple  and  almost  cliildish  convention,  never  to  be 
used  when  colloquy  will  serve  as  well.  The  question 
is  whether  it  can  be  abandoned  without  loss  of  dramatic 
expression. 

The  adherents  of  the  older  school  put  the  matter 
thus :  The  greatest  and  subtlest  characters  in  the  drama 
are  most  in  need  of  this  simple,  old-fashioned  device. 
The  conscience  tragedy,  the  war  within  the  soul,  the 
fight  between  the  higher  and  the  lower  nature,  which  is 
the  most  dramatic  struggle  of  all,  cannot  be  set  forth 
in  colloquy.  The  soul  of  man  is  solitary  and  withdrawn. 
If  it  expresses  itself  at  all  it  must  be  in  solitude.  The 
dramatist  who  rejects  the  soliloquy  limits  his  oppor- 
tunities, for  it  is  only  the  shallower  and  more  super- 
ficial characters  that  can  fully  reveal  themselves  with- 
out it. 

The  advocates  of  the  newer  school  have  up  to  the 
present  been  so  busy  creating  literature  that  their  com- 
ments upon  their  own  ways  and  means  are  of  the  most 
fragmentary  and  disconnected  However,  they  claim, 
first  of  all,  that  they  are  striving  as  honestly  as  their 
predecessors  to  make  art  create  the  illusion  of  life,  and 
that  it  is  their  methods  merely,  not  their  aims,  which  are 
new.  Furthermore,  they  explain  that  it  is  their  highest 
ambition  to  allow  the  spectator  to  make  the  acquaint- 


SOLILOQUY    IN    THE    MODERN    PLAY     149 

ance  of  their  dramatic  characters  as  he  would  learn  to 
know  strangers  in  life,  merely  by  accumulating  impres- 
sions of  them.  They  consider  that  when  the  hero  of 
a  play  soliloquizes  he  is  giving  the  audience  the  drama- 
tist's conception  of  his  (the  hero's)  nature.  It  is  treat- 
ing the  audience  with  greater  respect  to  assume  that  it 
can,  in  face  of  a  play  which  is  worth  seeing  at  all,  make 
its  own  deductions  from  its  own  observations.  As  for 
the  hero  himself,  it  is  treating  him  more  considerately 
to  allow  him  to  maintain  a  natural  reticence  and  reserve, 
and  not  to  drive  him  upon  the  stagey  device  of  talking 
his  soul  out  for  the  benefit  of  the  audience. 


The  Indirect  Vision 

The  realists  have  perhaps  invented  nothing  wholly 
new  to  take  the  place  of  the  time-honored  soliloquy. 
But  they  acknowledge  that  if  an  audience  is  denied  the 
privilege  of  seeing  the  hero  as  he  sees  himself,  it  must 
be  made  to  sec  him  all  the  more  plainly  as  he  appears 
to  others.  And  so  they  have  greatly  strengthened  and 
perfected  a  not  unfamiliar  device  —  that  of  making 
their  characters  seen  by  the  indirect  vision.  That  is, 
they  strive  to  make  the  audience  see  each  character  in 
a  play  as  he  is  reflected  in  the  minds  of  every  other 
person  on  the  stage,  believing  that  the  sum  total  of 
these  varied  reflections  is  the  greatest  and  truest  help 
the  audience  can  have  in  forming  its  mental  concept. 
To  illustrate,  it  may  be  said  that  IMoliere  brought  the 
art  of  this  to  perfection,  very  notably  in  his  presenta- 
tion of  Tartuffe.  It  will  be  rcnicinljercd  that,  although 
the  arch-hypocrite  is  most  indisputably  the  hero  of  the 
piece,  his  appearance  upon  the  stage  is  deferred  till  the 
second  scene  of  the  third  act,  when  the  play  is  more 


150  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

than  half  finished.  But  meanwhile  he  has  been  so  thor- 
oughly talked  over  by  the  extremely  varied  members 
of  Orgon's  household,  each  one  of  whom  has  an  alto- 
gether different  point  of  view,  that  he  looms  up  dis- 
tinctly in  every  one's  mind.  All  the  time  the  suspense 
is  deepening,  and  preparation  is  being  made  for  one  of 
the  greatest  enters  of  dramatic  art. 

A  comparison  between  Shakespeare's  way  of  pre- 
senting lago  and  the  above  introduction  of  Tartuffe 
is  of  the  greatest  significance.  lago  talks  to  himself 
volubly  from  the  first,  in  speeches  that  are  doubtless 
the  most  highly  dramatic  soliloquies  to  be  found  in  or 
out  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  Every  one  of  them  forces 
the  action  on,  and  illustrates  the  most  artistic  use  that 
can  be  made  of  the  soliloquial  form.  Tartuffe,  having 
been  kept  off  the  stage  till  past  the  usual  place  for  the 
climax  of  the  play,  when  at  length  he  does  come  on, 
naturally  talks  to  other  people.  There  is  little  left 
for  him  to  say  to  himself.  Soliloquy  would  be  the  most 
forced  and  undramatic  form  of  expression  that  he  could 
use.  His  character  has  been  thrown  into  high  relief 
by  indirect  vision  sharpened  and  strengthened  to  the 
uttermost. 

Belief  in  the  dramatic  value  of  the  indirect  vision  is 
the  flame  of  the  realist's  faith.  And  so  far  from 
fearing  to  trust  their  technique  in  the  handling  of  a 
character  that  is  subtle  or  profound  or  in  any  way 
especially  difficult,  the  devotees  of  realism  consider  that 
such  a  character  is  just  the  kind  they  can  manage 
better  than  any  other.  Nay,  more,  they  hold  that 
characters  so  individual  and  complex  and  unusual  that 
the  romantic  play  would  reject  them  as  impossible,  can 
easily,  by  the  newer  method,  be  made  to  live  and  move 
and  have  their  being  on  the  stage.     The  man  of  whom 


SOLILOQUY    IN    THE    MODERN    PLAY     151 

one  would  say  in  life,  "  He  cannot  be  described ;  you 
must  see  him  to  know  him,"  is  precisely  the  man  whom 
the  realist  exults  in  putting  into  a  play,  giving 
liim  a  long  rope,  so  that  he  can  act  for  himself.  A 
more  primitive  hero  might  be  forced  to  talk  to  himself 
about  himself,  but  the  complex  and  unique  nature  re- 
quires first  to  be  absolutely  created  and  then  to  be 
scrupulously  let  alone. 

What,  for  example,  could  soliloquy  do  for  Hedda 
Gabler?  Would  it  not  seem  a  very  clumsy  device  for 
her  to  use?  But  we  begin  to  accumulate  the  most  dis- 
tinct impressions  of  her  from  the  first  rise  of  the  cur- 
tain. We  see  her  as  she  appears  to  Tesman,  to  Judge 
Brack,  to  Lovborg,  to  Thea  and  to  Miss  Tesman. 
And  upgathering  these  impressions,  we  estimate  her, 
not  correctly  perhaps  (who  shall  say  what  is  correct 
as  regards  Hedda?)  but  as  adequately  as  if  we  had 
met  her  in  life.  And  to  go  beyond  life,  or  in  any 
way  to  transcend  it,  should  never,  the  realist  protests, 
be  the  ambition  of  true  art. 

Recognizing,  then,  that  he  must  strengthen  the  in- 
direct vision,  and  make  the  audience  see  each  character 
as  all  the  other  characters  see  him,  the  realist  is  com- 
pelled to  a  most  masterful  handling  of  the  forces  of 
his  play.  They  must  react  and  interact  by  all  the 
methods  that  make  for  unity  and  compactness  and  in- 
tensification of  dramatic  effect.  No  part  can  be  created 
for  its  own  sake,  but  every  part  must  be  for  the  play. 
No  character  may  tell  stories  or  talk  about  himself  to 
himself.  The  lines  of  action  must  never  straggle. 
Every  force  must  tend  inward  instead  of  outward. 

Not  the  least  of  the  achievements  of  the  newer  school 
is  the  inevitable  re-enforcement  of  the  crises  by  the 
dramatic  pressure  back  of  thcin.     At  the  points  where 


152  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

the  action  turns,  few  words  are  more  effective  than 
many,  apostrophe  is  uncalled  for,  and  silence  is  often 
surcharged  with  dramatic  expression. 

Witness  the  close  of  the  first  act  of  "  Monna  Vanna." 
There,  if  ever,  would  have  been  an  occasion  for  a  long 
soliloquy  in  a  romantic  play.  But  Vanna  has  been  made 
vivid  to  every  one  in  the  absorbing  colloquy,  nearly  a 
third  of  the  play  in  length,  between  Guido  and  old 
Marco.  Then,  when  she  appears,  she  speaks  in  broken 
sentences,  and  chiefly  to  say  that  she  cannot  speak. 
But  her  silences  are  intensely  dramatic. 

Popular  Discussion 

The  discussion  of  the  soliloquy,  pro  and  con,  is  now 
one  of  the  most  interesting  in  the  study  of  dramatic  art. 
And,  on  the  whole,  the  public  seems  less  impatient  of 
such  discussions  than  formerly.  It  does  not  quite  take 
the  French  attitude,  that  art  lives  upon  experiment, 
variety  of  attempt,  interchange  of  views  and  comparison 
of  standpoints ;  but  it  seems  willing  to  admit  that  when 
there  are  two  ways  of  creating  an  artistic  effect,  an 
impartial  comparison  of  them  may  be  informing  and 
stimulating.  We  are  learning  that  it  is  possible  to 
entertain  two  ideas  at  one  and  the  same  time.  The 
familiar  protestation,  "  I  don't  know  anything  about 
art,  but  I  know  what  I  like,"  is  less  frequently  heard. 
Sometimes  it  takes  the  form  of  the  admission,  "  I  am 
not  always  sure  what  I  like,  but  I  strive  to  know 
something  about  art."  At  any  rate,  we  are  beginning 
to  realize  that,  even  in  this  land  of  the  free,  if  we 
must  draw  absolute  conclusions  about  art  matters,  it 
is  well  to  have  a  wide  knowledge  and  a  comprehensive 
breadth  of  view  back  of  them. 


XII 
REALISM   IN   THE   MODERN   PLAY 

NOT  long  ago,  the  statement  was  made  in  a  bit 
of  dramatic  criticism,  that  homespun  rather  than 
ermine  has  most  deeply  influenced  the  world; 
and  thence  was  deduced  something  about  the  uplifting 
force  of  realism.  This  quite  indicates  the  prevalent 
view,  which  seems  to  be  that  when  literature  deals  with 
homespun,  it  is  for  that  reason  realistic,  while  any- 
thing about  ermine  must  by  the  same  token  be  roman- 
ticistic.  Thus  is  counsel  perpetually  darkened,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  some  of  the  most  foolish  and  unuplift- 
ing  literature  in  the  world  has  resulted  from  a  roman- 
ticistic  view  of  homespun,  and  some  undeniably  sincere 
and  enlightened  plays  and  novels  have  treated  ermine 
with  uncompromising  realism.  Once  again  must  it  be 
observed  that  what  distinguishes  the  school  of  realism 
from  the  school  of  romanticism  is  not  choice  of  ma- 
terial. The  world  is  all  before  all  artists  of  whatever 
convictions,  and  it  would  be  vain  to  warn  any  of  them 
to  keep  off  the  grass  here,  or  not  to  trespass  on  private 
grounds  there. 

Perhaps  it  comes  back  once  more  to  some  vagueness 
in  the  concept  of  what  scliools  of  art  are,  and  how  they 
are  formed. 

The  more  we  compare  and  contrast  the  more  we  in- 
cline to  think   that  the  aim   of  all  art  has  ever  been 


154  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

one  and  the  same:  to  create  the  illusion  of  life.  It 
is  doubtful  whether  the  realist  has  an  especially  earnest 
desire  to  "  show  life  as  it  is,"  to  "  be  true  to  human 
nature,"  to  "  keep  close  to  actual  life  "  or  to  "  portray 
real  living  people."  This  was  the  language  of  the 
romanticist  before  him ;  and  if  the  still  earlier  classicist 
did  not  exploit  the  same  tremendous  phrases  (which 
mean  so  much  and  yet  so  very  little)  it  was  doubtless 
because  he  lived  in  a  less  introspective  age,  and  was  not 
so  curious  in  searching  his  own  soul.  In  the  endeavor 
to  completely  represent  life  all  artists  have  striven 
desperately,  and  have  thought  their  ways  the  best.  It 
is  in  the  matter  of  the  ways  and  means  employed,  some 
successful,  some  utterly  futile,  some  honest  and  artistic, 
some  insincere  and  tawdry,  that  we  find  the  variation. 

Now  it  happens  at  long  intervals  of  time  that  some 
artist  who  has  fine  natural  vigor,  though  he  may  at 
the  moment  be  very  obscure,  will  begin  to  create  real 
effects  by  new  and  startling  methods.  If  he  absolutely 
triumphs  in  representing  life  with  fresh  vividness  and 
impressiveness  he  will  surely,  no  matter  how  revolu- 
tionary his  ideas,  inspire  other  artists,  far  and  near, 
to  make  trial  of  the  same  means.  Thus  will  be  formed 
a  guild  of  craftsmen,  perhaps  centered  in  a  capital, 
perhaps  scattered  over  half  the  globe,  but  all  bound  by 
the  strongest  tie  that  can  hold  artists  together  —  the 
perfecting  of  devices  by  which  they  may  deliver  their 
souls  to  the  world. 

After  some  such  fashion  the  latest  school  of  dramatic 
art  was  formed.  What  chiefly  distinguishes  the  realist, 
then,  is  not  that  he  writes  of  homespun  while  others 
treat  of  ermine;  but  that,  in  choosing  either  kind  or 
any  other  kind  of  material,  he  handles  it  with  a  new 
firmness  and  precision  of  touch.     Like  the  novelist,  he 


REALISM    IX    THE    MODERN    PLAY     155 

has  triumphed  over  the  helplessness  and  clumsiness  of 
some  of  his  predecessors.  Certain  crude  and  tiresome 
qualities  no  longer  mar  his  plays.     The  realist  knotcs 

llO'iV. 

The  Realist's  Methods 

Granted,  then,  that  it  is  a  matter  of  technique,  all 
that  is  necessary  is  to  show  what  the  realist  does  that 
has  not  been  done  before,  and  what  he  manages  to  avoid 
doing  that  has  hitherto  been  done  mistakenly. 

First  it  is  obvious  that  he  is  marked  out  by  his  atti- 
tude toward  human  nature.  It  is  not  enough  to  say 
that  he  respects  it  more  profoundl}"  than  it  has  ever 
been  respected  before ;  it  must  be  further  set  forth  that 
his  respect  is  of  a  peculiar  kind.  He  candidly  admits 
to  himself  that  a  great  deal  of  life  is  neither  grand,  nor 
inspiring,  nor  powerful,  nor  exciting,  nor  saintly,  nor 
villainous.  He  bravely  faces  the  fact  that  human  nature, 
whatever  it  ought  or  ought  not  to  be,  is  in  actuality 
often  tiresome,  commonplace,  even  foolish,  stupid  and 
insipid.  But  he  respects  human  beings  and  real  life 
witli  the  profound  feeling  of  the  creative  artist  for  his 
material  —  for  the  only  material,  that  is,  in  which  and 
with  which  he  can  ever  hope  to  work.  ^Moreover,  he  is 
content  to  study  his  material  with  the  sole  aim  of  under- 
standing it,  having  the  fullest  realization  that  this  is 
the  task  of  a  lifetime  and  more,  so  that  anything  like 
reforming  or  refining  that  which  he  is  working  with 
must  necessarily  be  omitted  for  lack  of  space. 

His  deeply  artistic  regard  for  human  nature  forces 
him  to  base  his  art  on  observation  —  on  the  more  or  less 
literal  taking  of  notes  —  and  on  that  alone.  At  this 
point  there  is  much  to  give  us  pause,  for  the  true  artist's 
power  of  observation  is  not  casually  to  be  mentioned. 


156  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


It  has  been  called  an  immense  sensibility  —  the  very 
atmosphere  of  the  mind  —  a  responsiveness  to  hfe  in 
general  that  causes  instant  response  to  its  slightest 
manifestation.  To  be  one  of  those  upon  whom  nothing 
is  lost  is  the  greatest  of  all  assets  for  the  artist  who 
would  represent  and  in  no  measure  misrepresent  life. 

It  is  generally  conceded  that  the  theory  of  the  realist, 
which  bases  his  art  on  the  taking  of  notes,  is,  whether 
sound  or  unsound,  more  intelhgible  and  consistent  than 
the  opposing  theories  of  other  schools.     For  example, 
a  jealous   character  is  to  be  introduced  into  a  play. 
The   process   is   to   exteriorize  the  character  as   com- 
pletely as  possible.     The  reaHst  has  long  accustomed 
himself  to  observe,  with  a  patience   and  respect  that 
refuses  to  meddle,  precisely  how  the  jealous  genus  homo 
acts  and  speaks,  and  also  how  other  people  act  toward 
him  and  speak  to  him.     And  so  he  creates  and  places 
his  character  accordingly.     He  is  confident  that,  if  his 
observation  has  been  fine  enough  and  his  use  of  it  is 
adroit  enough,  the  spectators  will,  by  adding  impression 
to  subtle  impression,  penetrate  the  nature  of  the  afore- 
said jealous   human  being  as   sanely  as   if  they  were 
observing  him  in  business   or   social  life.      The  whole 
process  of  creation  is  from  without  in,  the  dramatist 
disclaiming  any  ambition  to  do  more  for  his  audience, 
in  the  way  of  enlightenment,  than  life  is  wont  to  do 
for  the  impartial  observer.     "  To  show  what  life  shows 
is  enough  for  me,"  he  seems  to  be  saying  to  himself. 
"  My  care  must  be  that  it  is  not  too  much."     The 
jealous  character  neither  unpacks  his  heart  upon  the 
stage  in  soliloquy  nor  puts  his  head  out  of  the  window 
in  confidential  asides  to  the  audience,  while  the  actors 
about  him  ostentatiously  turn  deaf  ears.     He  is  per- 
mitted to  speak  and  act  like  a  human  being,  surrounded 


REALISM    IN    THE    MODERN    PLAY     157 

by  other  human  beings.  The  audience,  having  observed 
him  as  in  life  and  considered  the  attitude  of  others 
toward  him,  is  allowed  to  make  its  own  deductions  with- 
out being  spoon- victualed  (the  term  is  an  invention  of 
the  new  school)  with  information  by  the  officious  con- 
trivances of  the  author.  By  a  process  of  gradual  recog- 
nition, which,  like  the  dramatist's  mode  of  creation, 
works  from  without  to  the  depths  of  the  soul,  the  char- 
acter becomes  known  to  the  spectator,  not  preternatu- 
rally,  nor  supernaturally,  but  as  one  human  being  may 
be  known  to  another. 

The  realist's  art,  then,  begins  by  exteriorizing  and 
ends  with  a  revelation  of  the  innermost  nature. 

The  Romanticist's  Methods 

Over  against  the  realist's  conception  of  basing  his 
art  on  observation  and  the  taking  of  notes  —  a  method 
which  is  at  least  tangible  —  the  romanticist  places  his 
philosophy  of  art,  which  is  not  so  clean-cut.  It  seems 
to  be  based  on  a  curious  combination  of  experience 
and  imagination,  which  makes  it  individual  and  limited. 
Experience,  casual  as  much  of  it  must  be,  is  certainly 
a  fragile  reed  for  the  artist  to  lean  upon,  since  by  tlie 
very  act  of  creating,  which  is  so  often  cruel  in  its  de- 
mands upon  time  and  strcngtli,  he  fences  himself  in 
from  contact  with  the  world.  As  for  imagination  and 
sympathy,  it  is  so  picturesque  and  popular  a  view 
which  represents  the  artist  as  getting  inside  of  his 
characters  and  feeling  with  them  and  for  them,  that 
it  is  of  no  avail  to  try  to  dispel  it.  It  is  one  of  the 
fair  apparitions  that  will  not  down.  The  most  tliat  can 
be  done  Is  to  suggest  one  or  two  reasons  why  a  char- 
acter   thus    created,    instead    of    being,    as    is    always 


158  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

claimed,  supremely  dramatic,  is  liable  to  fail  of  being 
dramatic  at  all. 

Fancy  the  playwright  with  his  scenario  before  him. 
It  usually  involves  at  least  three  principal  characters 
—  the  hero  and  the  heroine  (the  very  names  are  un- 
real) and  somebody  to  make  trouble  between  them.  All 
of  these,  as  well  as  the  characters  which  form  the  set- 
ting, must  be  as  highly  differentiated  as  possible,  each 
having  individuality  enough  to  give  him  an  excuse  for 
being.  Now,  if  the  author  adopts  the  imaginative  and 
sympathetic  method,  he  must  adopt  it  once  for  all, 
since  he  cannot  well  be  outside  and  inside  of  his  cre- 
ations at  the  same  time.  A  jealous  character,  for  ex- 
ample, must  act  as  the  author  imagines  that  he  himself 
would  act  if  he  himself  were  jealous;  and  so  with  a 
magnanimous  character ;  so  with  the  high,  the  low,  the 
young,  the  old,  the  rich,  the  poor,  the  jester,  the  mur- 
derer, the  lover,  the  artist,  or  the  business  man,  to  the 
end  of  the  category.  Obviously,  some  of  his  characters 
will  be  more  vital  than  others,  since  personal  experience, 
however  varied  and  extensive,  must  somewhere  come  to 
an  end.  At  best,  his  creations  will  have  a  certain  per- 
sonal lyrical  effect,  not  without  charm,  even  in  a  play; 
at  worst,  they  will  recall  the  camel  which  the  scholarly 
German  evolved  out  of  his  inner  consciousness.  If  the 
dramatist  sympathizes  at  all,  he  will  inevitably  sym- 
pathize with  some  of  his  characters  more  than  with 
others,  the  result  being  those  non-dramatic  likes  and 
dislikes  which  distort  the  truth,  and  are  the  scorn  of 
the  realist.  There  will  be  little  spontaneity,  for  the 
characters  will  neither  move  nor  stand  still,  speak  nor 
keep  quiet,  except  as  the  author  projects  himself  into 
them,  one  after  another.  And,  worst  of  all,  the  crises 
will  not  come  about  inevitably,  but  must  be  brought 


REALISM    IN    THE    MODERN    PLAY     159 

about  by  main  force.  If  such  an  author  is  reported 
to  have  said,  in  an  interview,  that  he  wept  over  his 
heroine's  misfortunes,  or  contracted  a  case  of  brain 
fever  in  the  effort,  prolonged  perhaps  for  months,  to 
fancy  how  a  murderer  would  feel,  the  public  is  amazed 
and  awed  at  such  evidence  of  genius,  even  if  the  heroine 
in  question  is  somewhat  typical,  and  the  murderer  not 
so  very  murderous  after  all. 

In  contrast  to  such  spectacular  distress  and  ex- 
haustion, the  realist  has,  on  rare  occasions,  described 
a  peculiar  joy  and  satisfaction  in  the  work  of  creating. 
The  characters  whom  he  likes  best  are  the  ones  who, 
whether  bad,  good  or  indifferent,  stand  most  firmly  on 
their  own  feet,  act  out  their  own  natures  most  inde- 
pendently, and  in  the  end  get  out  of  his  control,  so 
that  they  fairly  make  things  happen  —  even  murder  and 
suicide,  if  such  events  belong  in  the  play.  Thus  the 
author  is  spared  the  tiresome  necessity  of  arranging 
coincidences,  pursuing  the  hero,  coercing  the  heroine 
and  constructing  pasteboard  murderers.  He  is  in  no 
danger  of  so  sympathizing  with  his  hero  that  he  is 
tempted  to  protect  him  from  disaster,  or,  what  is  com- 
moner, to  make  his  misfortunes  merely  theatrical.  He 
is  not  tempted  to  half  exploit  a  dastard's  meanness  be- 
cause of  being  disgusted  with  trying  to  feel  it;  for  in 
his  attitude  of  observer  he  is  spared  the  disgust.  His 
tragedy,  coming  of  itself,  as  it  always  does,  is  the  most 
real  and  terrible  in  the  world,  and  would  be  fairly 
unendurable  to  its  creator  if  he  were  in  the  sympa- 
tlietic  and  imaginative  frame  of  mind.  He  shrinks  from 
nothing,  because  he  is  where  the  author  should  ever  be, 
outside,  not  inside,  the  play.  And  the  public,  getting 
the  full  effect  and  not  the  mere  intent  of  his  art,  is 
thereby  so  much  the  gainer. 


160  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


The  Scope  of  Realism 

It  is  one  of  the  triumphs  of  the  form  of  dramatic 
art  which  is  based  on  observation  that  its  scope  is  so 
vast.  Indeed  its  boundaries  are  those  of  life  itself. 
Any  nature  may  be  represented,  because  any  nature 
may  be  observed;  and  the  reaHst  fairly  exults  in 
creating  the  uniquely  individual  human  being,  whose 
mental  processes  cannot  be  followed,  and  whose  nature 
is  perhaps  remote  from  anyone's  sympathy.  Some  of 
the  men  and  women  whom  Ibsen  handled  with  the  easiest 
mastery  —  Halvard  Solness  and  Hedda  Gabler,  for 
example  —  would  have  completely  daunted  and  baffled 
a  romanticist. 

The  realist's  regard  for  the  freedom  of  his  subjects, 
as  he  has  now  and  then  expounded  it  —  the  true  artist's 
delight  when  his  work  of  creation  is  so  completely 
achieved  that  he  can  stand  aside  a  little  while  his 
creatures  act  for  themselves  —  this  is  precisely  what 
the  public  of  today,  trained  as  it  has  been  to  marvel 
at  falser  methods,  is  least  able  to  understand.  And 
undoubtedly  it  is  past  the  comprehension  of  anyone 
but  the  artist  himself.  To  him  it  must  be  the  greatest 
reward  of  his  greatest  efforts. 

The  delusion  is  hard  to  kill  that  counts  the  rearrang- 
ing of  life  and  the  modifying  of  its  psychology  as  more 
difficult  and  more  praiseworthy  than  the  representing 
of  it.  But  one  reason  why  life  in  its  verity  is  too  much 
for  any  but  the  greatest  dramatic  artists  is  because  it 
is  so  full  of  exceptions  and  aberrations,  and  so  illogical 
in  its  working.  Life  is  very  unaccommodating  in  the 
matter  of  illustrating  the  motives  of  plays,  and  leading 
to  striking  finales  and  tremendous  catastrophes.  Fur- 
thermore, it  is  not  instructive  in  exactly  the  way  the 


REALISM    IN    THE    MODERN    TLAY     IGl 

romanticists  would  like  to  have  it.  It  seldom  proves 
anything  conclusively,  and  it  teaches  chiefly  the  danger 
of  being  too  sure  what  is  absolutely  right  or  absolutely 
wrong.  Its  situations  are  all  interesting,  but  are  apt 
to  become  non-dramatic  if  meddled  with.  So,  after  all, 
a  very  good  way  to  make  a  play  is  to  present  a  situa- 
tion which  is  not  too  detached  from  its  natural  setting, 
bearing  in  mind,  withal,  that  since  life  is  an  inconclusive 
affair,  it  is  best  not  to  wind  up  with  too  great  a  flourish. 

The  easy  criticism  of  all  this  is  that  it  makes  art 
trivial,  dull,  sordid,  uninspiring.  As  it  is  all  a  matter 
of  taste,  it  seems  of  little  use,  for  the  old  non  dispu- 
tandum  reason,  to  try  to  formulate  a  reply.  Like  a  new 
development  of  any  art,  realism  must  create  the  taste 
by  which  it  is  to  be  relished.  But  when  comment  goes 
a  step  further,  and  pronounces  even  the  best  of  realism 
non-moral  or  immoral,  a  reply  at  once  presents  itself. 

It  was  Victor  Hugo  who  said,  in  one  of  his  militant 
prefaces,  that  since  man  is  eternally  curious  about  him- 
self, one  demand  which  he  always  makes  of  a  play  is  that 
it  shall  depict  human  nature  and  promote  self-knowl- 
edge. Now,  realism  has  always  exhibited,  more  effect- 
ively than  classicism  or  romanticism,  two  views  of 
human  nature  which  arc  always  and  ever  helpful.  The 
one  shows  plainly  those  traits  which  all  human  beings 
have  in  common,  and  insists  that  precisely  because 
they  are  common  they  shall  be  studied  and  recog- 
nized as  not  peculiar  to  anyone.  The  other  view  pre- 
sents individuality  as  it  has  never  been  shown  before, 
and  insists  that  it,  in  its  turn,  shall  be  recognized  and 
appraised,  and  never  considered  common.  In  the  art 
of  the  new  school  botli  views  are  vivid,  and  each  is  safer 
and  saner  because  not  presented  without  the  other. 


XIII 

WHAT    IS    DRAMATIC    LITERATURE? 

Illustrated  hy  "  The  Admirable  Crichton  "  and 
"  What  Every  Woman  Knows  " 

By  James  M.  Babbie 

MR.  BARRIE'S  best  comedies  are  good  examples 
of  what  is  meant  by  dramatic  literature  in  the 
more  exact  understanding  of  the  term.  So 
many  plays,  especially  in  English,  are  either  drama 
(action)  and  not  literature,  or  literature  and  not 
drama,  that  we  are  unaccustomed  to  the  criticism  of 
dramatic  literature  in  the  sense  understood  by  the 
French. 

It  is  easy  to  be  voluble  about  the  purely  dramatic 
side  —  at  least  we  all  have  favorite  actors  and  actresses, 
and  are  full  of  ideas  about  the  best  interpretation  of 
great  parts.  The  merely  literary  view,  too,  is  easy  to 
get,  for  often  we  may,  if  we  like,  read  a  play  in  book 
form,  and  bring  to  bear  upon  it  critical  instincts  that 
have  been  sharpened  upon  literature  in  general. 

But  in  estimating  a  play,  or  in  comparing  one  play 
with  another,  to  keep  both  action  and  style  in  view, 
and  look  on  both  impartially,  is  not  easy.  Yet  this 
is  what  study  of  the  drama  means. 

Mr.  Barrie's  best  plays  are  "  The  Admirable  Crich- 


WHAT    IS    DRAMATIC    LITERATURE?     163 

ton"  (1903)  and  "What  Every  Woman  Knows" 
(1908).  They  have  never  been  published  (this  fore- 
stalls the  literary  view),  and  they  are  not  so  new  upon 
the  stage  as  to  be  unfamiliar,  nor  so  old  as  to  be 
forgotten.  It  may  be  interesting  to  compare  them  for 
a  moment,  and  observe  some  of  the  subtle  qualities 
which  make  them  w^orthy  to  be  called  dramatic  literature. 

They  are  alike  in  being  so  entertaining  and  exhila- 
rating as  to  ensnare  the  heedless,  and  yet  so  richly 
ideaed  and  so  full  of  the  thoughts  that  breed  thought 
as  to  satisfy  the  judicious.  Each  play  consists  of  four 
acts,  constructive,  cumulative,  adroitly  related  to  one 
another,  and  firmly  imbedded  in  the  play  as  a  whole. 

Now,  a  four-act  play  which  is  evenly  good  through- 
out is  a  rare  treat.  Too  frequently,  in  drama  of  such 
make,  we  are  obliged  to  tolerate  one  act  (it  may  be  any 
one  of  the  four)  which  is  either  so  poor  as  to  fall 
below  the  level  of  the  whole,  or  so  detached  as  to  be 
a  mere  episode.  As  far  as  keeping  shape  is  concerned, 
the  four-act  play  seems  harder  to  make  than  the  play, 
now  so  common,  with  only  three  acts. 

These  comedies,  then,  are  noteworthy  for  being  well 
sustained.  In  each  the  climax  is  at  the  close  of  the 
third  act,  and  at  various  points  there  are  fine  panto- 
mimic crises.  The  time  of  action  in  each  case  is  sev- 
eral years.  Striking  scenic  effects  are  employed,  the 
earlier  play  having  three  stage  sets  and  the  later  play 
four. 

In  spite  of  superficial  likenesses,  however,  there  is 
the  most  refreshing  unlikencss  in  concept  and  intel- 
lectual drift.  Barrie  appears  to  be  in  no  danger  of 
self-repetition.  We  never  mark  in  his  plays  (as  in 
Pinero's,  for  example)  the  reappearance,  under  thin 
disguise,  of  character,  incident  or  device.    He  is  always 


164.  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

unmistakably  Barrie,  but  each  new  play  takes  us  to 
fresh  dramatic  fields  and  new  intellectual  pastures. 

The  line  of  action  of  these  two  comedies  is  as  different 
as  their  spirit.  A  descriptive  sub-title  for  "  The  Ad- 
mirable Crichton  "  would  be  "  It  Cannot  Be  Done." 
So  the  play,  after  making  a  wide  excursion  in  time  and 
place  and  hap  (shipwreck  on  an  island,  you  remember, 
two  years  of  exile,  and  life  a  la  Robinson  Crusoe)  turns 
full  circle  and  appropriately  ends  where  it  began.  We 
realize  that  after  the  last  curtain  comes  down  things 
will  go  on  much  as  before  the  first  curtain  went  up. 
Here  is  completion  of  the  dramatic  design,  but  with- 
out finality.  This  is  always  good  structure,  especially 
for  comedy.  Events  in  life  do  not  often,  it  is  true, 
return  upon  themselves  and  come  to  nothing.  But  they 
have  a  ridiculous  tendency  to  result  in  far  less  than  is 
expected.  So  an  indeterminate  ending  to  a  vastly  ex- 
citing experience  is  of  good  comedic  effect  upon  the 
stage. 

"  What  Every  Woman  Knows,"  on  the  contrary, 
does  come  to  something.  The  whole  play  is  built  upon 
the  idea  of  accomplishing  the  well  nigh  impossible.  The 
feat  of  making  John  Shand  laugh  is  dramatic  triumph 
enough  for  one  comedy,  even  if  nothing  else  happened. 
So  in  this  play  the  final  act  is  far  separated  from  the 
first  in  time  and  place,  and  the  end  is  sharply  contrasted 
with  the  beginning.  The  action  having  opened  in  the 
humble  abode  of  the  Wylies,  closes  after  eight  eventful 
years  and  many  transitions  in  the  beautiful  country  seat 
of  the  Comtesse  de  la  Briere.  Nor  are  the  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Shand  of  the  final  scene  the  same  John  and  Maggie 
who  make  the  preposterous  contract  at  the  outset.  It 
is  curious  to  observe,  however,  that  the  receptive  and 
adaptable  Maggie  has  changed  far  less  than  the  self- 


WHAT    IS    DRAMATIC    LITERATURE?     165 

centered  John  —  that  "  extraordinary  queer  "  char- 
acter whom  nobody  understands  but  hhnself.  Indeed, 
the  denouement  lets  in  so  much  light  upon  Mr.  Shand's 
inner  consciousness  that  we  imagine,  what  with  liis 
newly  acquired  sense  of  humor,  and  his  partial  realiza- 
tion of  what  his  wife  has  been  doing,  he  must  be  perma- 
nently transformed.  And  our  speculation  as  to  what 
he  may  be  likely  to  do  next  opens  the  play  out  into  the 
future,  and  saves  it  also  from  a  theatrical  flourish  of 
finality. 

The  best  pantomimic  effect  In  the  earlier  play  is  at 
the  end  of  the  second  act  —  that  famous  scene  with  the 
kettle  of  broth  as  the  center  of  interest.  Crichton  has 
been  dismissed  for  arrogance.  But  notice  to  leave 
on  a  desert  island  being  rather  ineffective,  there  is  noth- 
ing for  the  gentry  to  do  but  to  go  away  and  leave  him. 
Unfortunately,  however,  they  are  half  starved;  and  as 
the  former  butler  has  a  savory  stew  cooking  over  the 
fire,  they  all  creep  back  one  by  one.  Lady  Mary 
last,  subdued  to  the  most  perfect  social  equality  by  the 
pangs  of  hunger.  So  profound  is  the  pantomimic  moan- 
ing that  not  a  word  is  needed  —  and  that  is  high  praise 
for  any  scene  in  any  play. 

In  "  What  Every  Woman  Knows  "  there  is  much 
good  pantomime,  notably  the  game  of  chess  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  play.  No  introduction  could  be  more 
effective;  and  really,  since  any  audience  is  apt  to  lose 
so  many  first  lines  of  a  first  act,  it  is  strange  that  panto- 
mime at  that  point  Is  not  used  more  frequently.  Clearly 
it  would  not  always  be  possible;  but  a  little  Ingenuity 
counts  for  a  great  deal  before  the  action  gets  under 
way,  and  so  a  llnclcss  opening  might  more  often  be 
made  to  serve. 

The  climaxes  In  these  delightful  comedies  can  hardly 


166  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

be  called  pantomimic.  But  in  the  earlier  play,  when 
the  boom  of  the  gun  is  heard,  what  the -hero  does  is 
more  impressive  than  what  he  says.  His  exclamation, 
"  Bill  Crichton  's  got  to  play  the  game,"  is  exciting, 
but  it  is  when  he  pulls  the  lever  and  the  beacons  blaze 
out  their  signal  to  the  receding  ship  that  the  real  climax 
is  reached. 

As  for  the  other  play,  nothing  that  jNIaggie  says, 
though  she  never  speaks  but  to  the  point,  is  so  elo- 
quent as  that  moment  when,  without  a  word,  she  drops 
her  knitting  from  her  passive  hands.  No  dramatist 
understands  better  than  Barrie  the  old  dictum  that 
what  is  shown  has  higher  value  on  the  stage  than  what 
is  said. 

In  both  plays  there  are  good  illustrations  of  how 
stage  scenes  may  be  made  to  economize  explanation  and 
exposition.  After  the  second  act  of  "  The  Admirable 
Crichton"  there  is  an  interval  of  two  years.  But  the 
moment  the  curtain  rises  on  the  third  act,  disclosing  the 
interior  of  the  tent,  so  much  that  has  meantime  hap- 
pened is  revealed  to  the  eye  that  there  is  no  need  of 
tiresome  narration  or  reminiscence.  And  a  like  effect 
is  created  when  the  curtain  goes  up  on  Shand's  com- 
mittee rooms  in  Glasgow.  Though  six  years  have 
elapsed  between  acts,  the  posters  and  signs  tell  us  at 
once,  without  any  long  "  bridging  over  "  speech,  that 
John  is  near  the  first  goal  of  his  ambition. 

Even  hasty  examination  such  as  the  above  shows 
that  in  these  comedies  there  is  an  inextricable  mingling 
of  drama  and  literature,  two  quite  different  forces, 
which  may  not  safely  be  considered  apart. 


XIV 
THE  PURPOSE  PLAY  AND  ITS  LIMITATIONS 

THE  relation  between  art  and  life  is  deep  and 
subtle,  but  so  real  as  not  to  be  hopeless  of  a 
simple  setting  forth.  To  begin  with,  there  is 
the  old  dictum  that  art  reveals  the  artist.  In  terms 
of  constructive  art  the  greatest  minds  have  ever  de- 
livered themselves  on  the  greatest  themes  —  as  life, 
death  and  immortality.  And  the  more  indirect  the 
expression,  the  more  complete  the  personal  revelation. 
In  nothing  is  this  truer  than  in  dramatic  art,  for  a 
great  play  always  projects  most  marvelously  the  inner- 
most soul  of  the  dramatist.  It  is  one  of  the  paradoxes 
of  the  strange  art  of  making  plays  that  the  more  strictly 
a  dramatist  withholds  himself  from  his  dramas,  the  more 
easily  his  true  nature  may  be  reconstructed  from  the 
sum  total  of  his  work.  For  example:  Ibsen  is  unf;iil- 
ingly  dramatic;  Pincro  often  harangues  and  preaches. 
Which  man  do  we  know  most  about.'' 

The  Imitative  Quality  in  Art 

Then,  too,  the  imitative  quality  or  function  in  art 
awakens  observation  and  prompts  to  the  study  of  human 
nature.  It  is  not  so  much  tliat  art  directly  reveals  ]If(>; 
but  often  life  must  be  variously  represented  to  us,  in 


168  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

prose,  in  verse,  on  the  stage,  and  in  the  plastic  arts, 
before  we  are  stimulated  to  study  it  for  ourselves.  That 
the  final  outcome  of  great  art  is  to  turn  us,  right 
about  face,  away  from  the  illusion,  miraculous  as  it 
is,  and  toward  life  itself,  is  not  the  least  beneficial  of 
its  effects. 


Zestful  Interest  in  Art 

And  then  (to  a  realization  of  this  we  are  just  awaken- 
ing) a  zestful  interest  in  the  fine  arts  is  one  of  the 
sanest  and  wholesomest  of  enthusiasms,  which  the  Ameri- 
can is  temperamental  enough  to  enjoy  like  a  French- 
man. The  excitement  over  a  new  novel,  a  new  sym- 
phony, a  new  play  or  (for  our  horizon  is  widening) 
a  new  school  in  any  form  of  expression,  is  equally  salu- 
tary to  those  who  are  at  the  restless  age  when  they 
must  go  wild  over  something,  and  to  their  elders, 
who,  if  they  wish  not  to  grow  old,  must  keep  their 
minds  hospitably  open  to  new  ideas  and  impressions. 
As  to  promoting  good  fellowship,  who  cannot  recall 
occasions  when,  for  a  few  days  or  weeks,  everybody 
talked  about  some  new,  startling,  stimulating  work  of 
art,  and  frequently  three  or  four  people  talked  at  the 
same  time? 

Perhaps  no  very  wise  deductions  were  made,  but 
there  was  electricity  and  tonic  refreshment  in  the  air, 
and  while  it  lasted  nobody  thought  about  himself  or 
gossiped  about  his  neighbor.  As  the  immortal  Gabriel 
Nash  would  say,  the  world  was  brightened  for  a  good 
many  people,  and  for  a  brief  space  the  ideal  was 
brought  nearer  to  them,  "with  its  feet  on  earth  and 
its  great  wings  trembling."  Best  of  all,  when  the  ex- 
citement passed,  it  left  an  abiding  memory  of  the  truest 


PURPOSE  PLAY  AND  ITS  LIMITATIONS     169 

social  intercourse,  and  a  kind  of  prophetic  responsive- 
ness, ready  to  acclaim  with  livelier  receptivity  the  next 
great  work  in  whatever  art. 


Art  is  not  Reformatory 

All  this,  and  more  in  the  same  strain,  is  true,  or  we 
hope  and  believe  will  ultimately  become  true,  of  the 
interest  in  esthetics  in  this  country.  But  when  we 
requisition  the  fine  arts,  or  any  one  of  them,  to  be 
corrective,  or  reformatory,  or  edifying,  that,  it  must 
be  admitted,  is  another  matter.  When  criticism  takes 
the  school-masterly  line,  it  is  always  under  suspicion 
of  not  quite  distinguishing  qualities  and  discerning 
technical  beauties  or  blemishes.  Our  country  is  still  so 
young  that  we  have  hardly  passed  the  stage  of  getting 
our  backgrounds,  against  which  we  may  presently  see 
all  art,  old  and  new,  in  better  adjustment.  Till  then 
the  best  we  can  do  is  to  keep  steadily  before  us  what 
has  ever  been  the  highest  ideal  of  the  art  critic  —  to 
sympathize  intelligently  with  the  artist  in  his  stem 
struggle  for  expression,  and  then  to  make  comparative 
measurements  of  his  success  or  failure. 

Of  late  there  has  been  a  disposition  to  separate  the 
drama  from  the  other  arts,  and,  as  if  it  were  quite 
differently  related  to  life,  to  bind  it  to  an  especial 
moral  responsibility.  Perhaps  this  has  come  about  in 
desperation  over  the  apparent  failure  of  certain  other 
influences  upon  which  society  has  been  accustomed  to 
depend.  But  it  is  strange  that  many  people  who  until 
recently  have  been  indifferent  to  even  the  nobler  mani- 
festations of  dramatic  art  are  now  most  confident  of 
the  lessons  it  might  be  made  to  teach  and  the  tlieses 
it  might  prove.     How  they  reason  from  what  tlicy  re- 


170  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

gard  as  a  trivial  and  sometimes  degraded  past  to  a 
highly  polemic  and  reformatory  future  does  not  ap- 
pear, for  they  are  apt  to  be  vague  about  ways  and 
means.  But  whatever  their  logic,  they  overlook  the 
stubborn  fact  that  it  is  the  object  of  art  to  create  the 
illusion  of  life,  and  that  when  it  fails  to  create  illusion, 
Jt  ceases  to  be  art.  Now  nothing  dispels  illusion  like 
the  evidence  of  conti'ivance.  As  Mr.  Walkley  of  the 
London  Times  says,  "  Let  the  dramatist  for  one  mo- 
ment excite  the  suspicion  that  this  or  that  incident  in 
his  play  is  there  because  his  thesis  requires  it  to  be 
there,  and  the  game  is  up."  That  is,  the  illusion  is 
blown  clean  away,  and  the  drama  ceases  to  be  art.  It 
may  be  regarded  as  a  vehicle  of  the  truth,  but  the 
truth  is  never  so  weakened  in  effect  as  when  it  mis- 
takenly chooses  the  mere  mechanical  form  of  one  of 
the  fine  arts  as  a  means  of  exploitation. 

Then,  too,  it  is  argued  that  the  moralizing  play  may 
be  an  effective  cure  for  the  demoralizing  play.  If  this 
were  so  the  outlook  would  be  more  hopeful.  Because 
the  severely  purpose  play,  not  wholly  destitute  of 
literary  qualities,  is  by  no  means  the  most  difficult  of 
all  to  create.  If  only  it  could  be  trusted  to  sweep 
from  the  face  of  the  earth  the  play  which  deserves 
not  even  the  name  of  play,  that  would  be  a  reason 
for  wishing  to  see  it  and  nothing  else,  indefinitely. 

But  it  is  only  too  plain  that  contention  against 
the  drama  which  debases  the  moral  currency  must  be 
by  methods  more  ingenious  and  practical  than  merely 
setting  over  against  it,  as  a  rival  in  interest,  the  socio- 
logical or  sermonizing  play.  Such  drama,  burdened 
with  its  "  message,"  is  often  too  imperfectly  dramatic 
to  seize  powerfully  even  the  "  fit  audience  though  few," 
which  it  most  readily  finds.     How,  then,  can  it  be  ex- 


PURPOSE  PLAY  AND  ITS  LIMITATIONS     171 

pected  to  overtop  all  other  excitements  in  the  minds 
of  the  audience  that  is  neither  fit  nor  few?  Experi- 
ment has  proved  times  out  of  mind  that  to  impress 
a  big  audience  a  play  must  abound  in  vitality,  be 
spontaneous  in  motivation  and  (most  significant  in 
this  connection)  sound  in  its  fundamental  dramatic 
qualities. 

After  all,  perhaps  the  best  reason  why  dramatic  art 
has  always  refused  to  be  bound  to  a  thesis  is  be- 
cause life,  to  which  it  must  "  throw  back,"  is  so  illogical 
and  inconclusive.  The  more  honestly  a  situation  is 
worked  out  on  the  stage,  the  less  valuable  it  is  as  evi- 
dence in  any  cause.  It  is  hard,  even  in  philosophy,  to 
make  life  "  illustrate  "  an  idea,  without  getting  into  the 
way  of  looking  at  it  crookedly.  Still  more  difficult  is 
it  to  force  a  play  to  illustrate  a  theory  or  a  moral 
purpose,  and  withal  keep  it  normal  and  artistic.  The 
play  which  broadens  out  at  the  end  with  the  thoughts 
that  breed  thought  is  more  effectual  in  any  good  cause 
than  the  one  which  comes  to  a  formal  and  didactic 
conclusion. 


The  Moral  Implication  of  Art 

It  is,  then,  a  safe  generalization  that  the  great  play, 
even  when  local  and  temporary  —  and  the  best  drama 
has  usually  been  quite  of  its  own  time  and  place  — 
must  have  in  it  much  of  the  universal  and  the  eternal. 
The  enveloping  idea  or  ideas  must  be  large  and  ample, 
so  that  the  spectator  may  grow  larger  minded  as  lie 
gazes  and  listens.  As  for  the  moral  teaching,  that  may 
fairly  be  left.  The  aim  of  true  dramatic  art  is  so  lofty, 
its  struggles  are  so  stern,  and  its  triumphs  so  hard 
won,  that  it  may  well  be  trusted  to  keep  itself  out  of 


172  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

mischief.  Moreover,  Providence  long  ago  took  the 
ultimate  effect  of  all  the  fine  arts  into  her  especial 
keeping.  Whenever  any  one  of  them  gains  its  highest 
level  it  stretches  upward  an  eager  hand  to  welcome 
and  draw  down  all  high  spiritual  influences.  Henry 
Arthur  Jones  puts  it  most  impressively  when  he  says: 
"  So  cunningly  economic  is  nature  that  she  can  slip 
In  her  moral  by  hook  or  by  crook.  There  cannot  be 
an  intellectual  effort  in  any  province  of  art  without  a 
moral  implication." 

Art  is  long  and  slow  to  develop  in  the  life  of  any 
nation ;  nor  has  it  ever  been  wont  to  preach  or  teach 
its  way  into  favor.  Let  us  give  our  drama  time  and 
chance  to  come  into  its  own.  If  we  expect  it  to  fulfill 
purposes  unknown  to  art  in  the  older  countries,  we 
may  dishearten  it  for  its  best  efforts.  Meanwhile  it 
becomes  us  to  adventure  our  souls  as  often  as  possible 
among  the  masterpieces,  that  we  may  be  sure  of  our 
foundations  and  backgrounds.  So  shall  our  apprecia- 
tion become  less  opinionated  and  didactic  —  in  a  word, 
less  immature.  Then  shall  we  make  those  large  demands 
upon  our  native  drama  that  have  ever  brought  the 
greatest  results. 


XV 

THE    PIECED-OUT    PLAY 

THE  contemporary  play  seems  to  be  having 
troubles  of  its  own,  not  the  least  of  which  is 
the  difficulty  in  making  enough  of  itself  to 
come  to  the  time  limit  of  performance  without  some- 
where patching  or  piecing  or  stretching  itself  out. 

What  Ibsen  did  so  marvelously  well  his  successors 
are  doing  laboriously.  The  economy  of  characters 
and  the  reduction  of  the  external  action  is  probably 
one  cause  of  this  trouble,  and  the  centralizing  of  place 
may  be  another.  However,  there  must  be  something 
more,  for  neither  So})liocles  nor  Moliere  assembled 
many  characters  nor  allowed  themselves  much  space 
for  the  action  of  their  plays,  which  nevertheless  filled 
the  accustomed  time  without  being  prolonged  by  cheap 
devices. 

The  shortening  or  leaving  out  of  the  long  speech, 
descriptive,  expositional  or  soliloquial,  has  probably 
wrought  more  annoyance  than  anything  else.  Then, 
too,  there  is  the  disappearance  from  the  serious  play 
of  the  humorous  or  farcical  scene.  The  strenuous  play 
of  the  present,  with  its  infused  or  diffused  humor  and 
satire,  no  longer  needs  the  relief  of  the  contrasting 
scene.  Then  there  is  a  smaller  matter  likely  to  be 
overlooked.  The  three-act  play  has  only  two  intervals, 
while  tlie  five-act  play  (now  so  rare)  had  of  necessity 


174  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

four.  So,  allowing  ten  minutes  to  an  interval,  it  ap- 
pears that  the  mere  change  in  the  number  of  acts  gives 
the  new  play  an  extra  twenty  minutes  to  occupy.  There 
may  be  other  still  more  practical  complications.  At  all 
events  it  is  only  too  evident  of  late  that  many  a  play 
is  like  the  mock  turtle  which  David  Copperfield  bought 
for  his  first  dinner  party  and  which  proved,  as  Steer- 
forth  said,  "  rather  a  tight  fit  for  four."  The  material 
out  of  which  the  modern  play  is  made  often  seems  a 
tight  fit  for  three  acts  and  tighter  still  for  four. 

Handling  Dramatic  Material 

Now  this  kind  of  play,  even  when  it  is  of  the  better 
sort,  is  apt  to  obtrude  its  construction  —  or  miscon- 
struction —  upon  the  notice.  That  is,  the  piecing  out 
of  its  essentials  is  often  so  clumsy  that  anyone  may 
see  both  how  and  why  it  is  done.  Sometimes  the  ob- 
servant spectator  perceives  this  mechanism  in  spite 
of  the  best  will  in  the  world  not  to  be  disillusioned; 
and  then,  reasoning  from  the  unworkmanlike  play  to 
the  workmanlike  one,  he  is  fairly  driven  to  some  con- 
clusions as  to  how  they  must  have  differed  while  they 
were  in  the  making. 

It  looks  as  if  the  far  beginning  might  be  much 
the  same,  whether  the  finished  w^ork  be  admirable  or 
only  tolerable,  for  the  triangular  framework  is  hardly 
ever  varied.  At  least  there  is  always  a  hero  and  a 
heroine,  and  generally,  for  the  third  angle  in  the  out- 
line, either  a  man  as  in  "  Tartuffe,"  a  woman  like 
Ellean  in  "  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,"  or  a  child 
like  Aristobulus  in  "  Herod."  Sometimes  the  disturb- 
ance is  caused  by  a  departed  spirit,  as  in  "  CEdipus," 
"  Hamlet  "  or  "  Ghosts."     But  there  seldom  fail  three 


THE    PIECED-OUT    PLAY  175 

principal  characters  for  some  kind  of  dramatic  permu- 
tation and  combination. 

It  is  the  manner  of  conceiving  these  three  funda- 
mental characters  at  the  outset  that  makes  all  the 
difference.  The  realist  of  the  best  school  fairly  sees 
them  as  human  beings,  not  creations  of  his  own  manu- 
facture, and  because,  to  liis  clearer  vision,  they  are 
human  beings,  they  have  a  distinct  and  natural  back- 
ground; and  because  they  are  thrown  up  against  such 
a  background,  in  the  midst  of  a  natural  setting  of  other 
human  beings,  the  dramatist  at  once  perceives  minor 
characters  in  abundance  all  about  them,  and  is  able 
to  select  (mark  the  gracious  word!)  enough  of  these 
minor  characters  to  make  his  play  amply  fill  the  three 
or  four  acts  and  the  conventional  two  hours  of  per- 
formance. The  motives  for  the  minor  characters  need 
not  be  invented,  for  they  will  spring  out  of  the  original 
controlling  motive ;  the  colloquy,  however  brilliant,  is 
sure  to  be  dramatic,  not  literary;  and  the  growth  of 
the  whole  drama  will  be  by  the  fine  and  safe  process 
of  discriminating  and  omitting. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  playwright  whose  methods  are 
less  spontaneous,  having  evolved  his  leading  characters 
laboriously,  sees  them,  not  normally  among  their  fel- 
low men  and  women,  but  isolated  and  swung  out  into 
space.  Tlie  cross  relations  within  such  a  detached  trio 
may  be  complicated  enough  for  one  tense  act,  or  even 
for  two,  but  when  the  unfortunate  autlior,  driven  by 
the  necessity  of  coming  to  the  inexorable  time  limit, 
begins  to  cast  about  for  his  minor  characters,  tlie  fact 
that  the  original  three  were  mechanically  created  is 
much  against  him.  As  they  have  no  natural  setting, 
he  must  altogether  imagine  their  friends  and  their  ene- 
mies,   for   whom    in    turn    he    must    invent    motives    of 


176  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

action.  These  subordinate  motives  must  then  be  "  inter- 
meddled," as  the  poet  Spenser  would  say,  with  the 
central  motive ;  and  finally  everybody  must  talk  a  great 
deal  about  everything  in  general  to  fill  up  the  gaps. 

It  is  indeed  one  thing  to  work  by  a  masterly  cutting- 
down  process,  which  makes  the  whole  structure  firm  and 
beautiful  of  finish,  and  quite  another  thing  to  interpo- 
late and  interpose  here  and  there,  in  a  small  frame- 
work, various  materials  which,  to  quote  Spenser  again, 
are  "  accidents  rather  than  intendments."  One  sus- 
pects that  the  dramatic  tinker  sometimes  deliberately 
calculates  which  of  his  three  acts  it  will  be  least  con- 
spicuous to  attentuate  in  order  to  fill  out  the  others. 
Frequently  he  seems  to  decide  in  favor  of  the  second, 
perhaps  on  the  principle  that  if  the  first  act  is  inter- 
esting enough  to  ensnare  the  attention,  and  the  third 
cumulative  enough  to  leave  a  final  impression,  the  audi- 
ence may  be  hoodwinked  into  thinking  the  middle  of 
the  play  not  so  very  scanty  and  pointless  after  all. 

It  is  plain  to  be  seen  which  kind  of  play  is  the  great- 
est temptation  to  the  starring  system.  The  built-out 
play  always,  in  and  of  itself,  suggests  a  star  and  satel- 
lites. It  is  the  play  that  is  conceived  as  a  whole,  minor 
characters  and  incidents  being  a  part  of  its  organism 
from  the  first,  which  demands  for  just  and  fair  treat- 
ment that  every  man  and  woman  in  the  cast  shall  act, 
not  to  illuminate  a  star,  nor  yet  to  strengthen  his  or 
her  own  part,  but  for  the  fullest  interpretation  of  the 
play  itself. 

To  go  out  of  the  way  for  a  moment,  the  starring 
system  in  this  country  has  warped  Ibsen's  plays  worst 
of  all,  because  they  are  so  highly  unified ;  and  the  final 
twist  to  the  distortion  has  been  given  by  the  fact  that 
Ibsen  stars,  no  matter  what  the  play,  have  almost  always 


THE    PIECED-OUT    PLAY  177 

been  actresses,  and  almost  never  actors.  Inasmuch  as 
Ibsen  was  quite  incapable  of  taking  so  one-sided  a  view 
of  society  as  to  create  strong  parts  for  women  and  weax 
parts  for  men,  this  exalting  of  the  feminine  has  done 
him  grievous  wrong.  His  plays  have  fared  much  better 
in  Europe,  especially  on  the  continent,  where  they  have 
been  taken  more  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  have  been 
put  on  by  the  best  stock  companies.  It  may  be  added 
that  in  the  older  countries  Ibsen  has  not  been  read  so 
assiduously.  Perhaps  this  has  helped  to  protect  him 
from  the  excig  WeibUche. 

Brilliant  Stage  Conversation 

Of  all  methods  of  building  out  plays  the  device  of 
"  making  talk  "  is,  at  its  best,  the  one  for  which  it 
is  easiest  to  find  excuse.  It  is,  of  course,  a  subterfuge ; 
but  then  the  declamatory  speeches  of  the  old  drama 
were  often  nothing  but  grand  rhetorical  subterfuges. 
Equally  of  course,  merely  illustrative  dialogue  belongs 
properly  to  prose  fiction.  But  perhaps  it  is  one  re- 
sult of  the  singular  craze  for  dramatizing  novels  that 
clever  talk  has  obtruded  itself  into  the  play.  It  is 
not  strange  that  the  playwright  of  today  is  tempted 
to  emulate  the  novelist  in  style,  for  conversation  in 
fiction  has  become  extraordinarily  brilliant.  Witness 
the  works  of  Mrs.  Wharton,  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 
and  ]\Ir.  Wells,  not  to  mention  Mr.  James  and  INIr. 
Howells.  Even  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  and  Henry  Arthur 
Jones,  thorough  playwrights  by  first  and  last  intention, 
have  caught  some  of  the  novclistic  infection.  Nor  have 
critics  been  wanting  to  applaud  them  in  their  imitation 
—  if  i.nitation  it  be.  Of  "  The  Second  INIrs.  Tanque- 
ray  "    IVI.    Filon    said :    "  Such    a    piece    enlarges    tlic 


178  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

province  of  the  theater.  Minute  details  are  to  be 
found  in  it  .  .  .  shades  that  the  theater  had  left  to 
the  novel  up  to  then."  And  Mr.  Walkley  of  the  Lon- 
don Times  advises  encouraging  every  attempt  to  trans- 
fer to  the  stage  the  most  advanced  methods  of  fiction. 
It  would  be  interesting  to  hear  the  comments  of 
thoughtful  actors  upon  some  of  those  wonderfully  as- 
tute and  significant  and  profound  speeches  which  it  is 
so  often  their  fortune  to  utter  upon  the  stage.  Merely 
to  assume  to  hit  off  in  ordinary  conversation  such  stimu- 
lating reflections  upon  society  and  the  world  at  large 
must  make  them  feel  more  distinguished  than  all 

The  intertissued  robe  of  gold  and  pearl, 
The  sword,  the  mace,  the  crown  imperial 

of  old  tragedy. 

If  it  be  true  that  Bernard  Shaw  is  the  players'  play- 
wright, in  the  sense  that  his  plays  are  very  widely 
read  by  professionals,  perhaps  it  is  because,  with  all 
his  reckless  misconstructions,  he  gives  his  characters 
such  audacious  and  sparkling  lines.  To  recite  Mr. 
Shaw's  best  speeches  at  an  audience  must  give  any 
speaker  a  momentary  sensation  of  assisting  in  the 
reformation  of  the  universal  order  of  things. 

Unsuccessful  Imitation  of  Ibsen 

But,  whatever  excuses  may  be  made  for  it,  we  are 
forced  to  admit  that  the  present-day  play  is  often  a 
very  pieced-out  affair.  Nor  is  the  cause  of  the  con- 
fusion far  to  seek.  Mr.  Huneker  says  in  one  of  his 
ingenious  figures  that  Ibsen  changed  forever  the  dra- 
matic map  of  Europe.  Plainly  it  is  Ibsen  who  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  disorder  into  which  the  contemporary 


THE    PIECED-OUT    PLAY  179 

drama  is  now  and  again  thrown.  His  followers  seldom 
seem  to  grasp  the  fundamental  difference  between  the 
old  five-act  form  and  the  new  three-act  form.  Nor  do 
they  always  realize  that,  though  the  three-act  play 
may  be  only  a  passing  phase,  it  is  nevertheless  dan- 
gerous to  trifle  with.  The  severity  of  its  structure 
makes  all  superfluities  alarmingly  obvious ;  and,  then, 
a  poor  act  is  manifestly  far  more  disorganizing  in  a 
play  which  has  only  three  acts  altogether  than  in  one 
which  separates  itself  in  the  old  way  into  five  acts. 

On  the  whole,  many  plays  of  the  present,  as  they 
come  and  go  upon  the  stage,  turn  us  in  increasing  ad- 
miration toward  Ibsen,  who  never  manufactured  his 
plays  by  the  piecing  together  of  parts  or  the  stretching 
out  of  any  one  part  or  the  building  on  of  additions 
or  the  inflating  of  the  whole.  Good  craftsmansliip  is 
always  enhanced  in  value  when  compared  with  im- 
perfect work  of  its  own  kind.  Viewed  by  themselves, 
the  plays  of  Ibsen  show  shortcomings  and  weak  places. 
Bat  lined  up  with  less  sure-handed  imitations  they  rise 
in  worth  and  dignity. 


XVI 
THE    STATIC    PLAY 

THE  question  of  what  constitutes  dramatic  ma- 
terial is  always  interesting.  What  kind  of  inci- 
dent it  is  which  prospers  best  as  the  germ  from 
which  a  play  may  grow  is  a  question  which  one  dramatic 
period  has  never  been  able  to  answer  to  the  satisfaction 
of  another.  At  present  the  debate  is  probably  no  more 
vivacious  than  it  has  often  been  before;  but  the  drama 
is  striving  hard  to  reflect  the  inner  as  well  as  the  outer 
developments  of  modern  life,  and  its  chances  and 
changes  provoke  discussion. 

What  is  a  Dramatic  Incident? 

It  is  easy  to  say  that  a  generation  which  is  fighting 
microbes  and  monopolies  must  perforce  have  different 
plays  from  an  age  that  fought  villains  and  dragons ; 
but  to  trace  the  stages  by  which  the  attention  of  the 
theater  audience  has  been  detached  from  the  external 
and  directed  toward  the  psychological  is  not  easy. 
There  are,  however,  some  way-marks. 

It  was  a  decade  ago  that  the  Belgian  mystic  made 
his  now  famous  plea  for  a  static  drama ;  but  the 
echoes  of  his  plaintive  cry  are  still  in  the  air. 

"  Is  it  while  I  flee  before  a  naked  sword  that  my 
existence  touches   its  most   interesting  point.'' 


THE    STATIC    PLAY  181 

"  Does  the  soul  flower  only  on  nights  of  storm? 

"  What  can  I  learn  from  creatures  who  have  no  time 
to  live,  for  that  there  is  a  rival  or  a  mistress  whom 
it  behooves  them  to  put  to  death?  " 

Some  years  before  this  Henry  James  inquired, 
"What  is  incident  but  the  illustration  of  character?" 
and  then  blandly  asserted,  "  It  is  an  incident  for  a 
woman  to  stand  with  her  hand  resting  on  a  table  in 
a  certain  way;  or  if  it  be  not  an  incident,  I  think  it 
will  be  difficult  to  say  what  it  is."  This  static  heroine 
of  Mr.  James'  has  been  quoted  and  rcquoted  till  she 
is  as  familiar  as  Maeterlinck's  quiescent  hero,  "  An 
old  man  seated  in  his  arm-chair,"  who  is  supposed  to 
live  "  a  deeper  and  more  human  and  more  universal 
life  than  the  captain  who  conquers  in  battle  or  the 
husband  who  avenges  his  honor." 

Now,  on  the  stage  it  is  hardly  practical  for  a  lady 
to  stand  many  moments  at  a  time  with  her  hand  rest- 
ing on  a  table,  even  if  she  does  it  in  the  most  certain 
way  in  the  world;  and  a  gentleman,  old  or  young, 
who  waits  too  patiently  in  an  arm-chair  is  apt  to  make 
the  audience  impatient.  It  may  be  quite  true,  as  Mr. 
James  has  since  declared,  that  the  greatest  adventure 
of  all  is  just  to  be  you  or  I,  just  to  be  he  or  she;  but 
it  is  difficult  to  make  it  a  stage  adventure. 

After  all,  the  old  "  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesie  "  puts 
these  protests  against  the  dynamic  theater  better  than 
contemporary  criticism,  thougJi  Dryden  speaks  across 
seven  generations  from  an  age  little  given  to  subtleties. 
Commenting  upon  Frendi  plays,  which  the  English 
then  thought  very  uneventful,  he  says:  "Every  altera- 
tion or  crossing  of  a  design,  every  new-sprung  passion 
and  turn  of  it.  Is  a  part  of  Hie  action,  and  much  the 
noblest  jjart  of  it,  except  we  conceive  nothing  to  be 


182  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

action  till  the  players  come  to  blows;  as  if  the  paint- 
ing of  the  hero's  mind  were  not  more  properly  the 
poet's  work  than  the  strength  of  his  body." 

This  is  direct  and  vigorous,  like  most  of  Dryden's 
prose;  but  it  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  its  prophetic 
suggestion  of  Ibsen.  The  turn  of  a  new-sprung  pas- 
sion, and  especially  the  alteration  or  crossing  of  a 
design,  are  favorite  motives  with  Ibsen,  who  is  always 
successful  in  making  a  shift  in  mental  attitude  more 
thrilling  than  a  dagger  thrust. 

In  fact,  it  was  Ibsen  who  settled  the  question  as  to 
whether  psychological  analysis  could  be  dramatic,  by 
turning  out  play  after  play  in  which  changes  of  feel- 
ing, and  even  changes  of  mind,  were  made  exciting 
without  the  aid  of  external  action.  And  now  that  his 
plays  have  become  popular,  everybody  recognizes  that 
in  several  of  them  the  biggest  moments  wax  and  wane 
without  affording  the  audience  much  of  anything  to 
look  at.  In  "  Rosmersholm  "  many  passages  of  deepest 
significance  appeal  almost  entirely  to  the  ear.  It  is 
interesting  when  Rosmer  and  Rebecca  pull  their  minds 
up  by  the  roots  to  watch  how  they  are  growing;  but 
there  is  not  much  to  see.  And  if,  while  Nora  and 
Helmer  are  talking  at  the  close  of  "  A  Doll's  House," 
the  stage  were  darkened  or  screened,  the  colloquy  would 
lose  little  efifect. 

As  for  "  The  Master  Builder,"  it  is  claimed  that 
there  are  moments  in  its  unfolding  when  the  secondary 
dialogue  and  the  melody  of  harps  in  the  air  become 
so  interpretative  that  the  words  of  the  play  may  be 
unheeded.  Probably  no  one,  to  prove  this,  has  ever 
tried  Diderot's  trick  of  stuffing  his  ears  with  cotton 
wool;  but  sensible  and  practical  people  have  been 
known  to  affirm  that,  in  the  midst  of  their  most  breath- 


THE    STATIC    PLAY  183 

less  absorption  in  Hilda  and  her  Master  Builder,  they 
found  it  hard  to  keep  their  attention  on  the  lines, 
so  powerful  and  significant  were  the  mystical  influences 
flasliing  back  and  forth  upon  the  stage. 

Thus  in  many  plays  by  Ibsen  and  his  successors  the 
feat  of  making  psychological  analysis  dramatic  has 
been  triumphantly  brought  off;  and,  since  it  is  always 
easy  to  be  wise  after  the  event,  we  are  now  in  a  mood 
to  say  "Why  not?"  Why,  we  ask  ourselves,  since 
a  change  in  mental  attitude  is  often  a  supreme  moment 
in  life,  should  it  not  serve  to  motive  a  play,  even  if  it 
does  not  express  itself  in  a  duel  or  an  elopement. 
Apparentl}^  the  old  structural  forms  need  not  be  wholly 
abandoned.  The  drama  of  mental  states  always  has 
its  fundamental  "  story,"  just  as  much  as  "  Ruy  Bias  " 
or  "  Fedora."  Often  when  this  story  is  extracted 
and  set  in  order  it  proves  a  thoroughly  good  story 
to  tell  and  to  hear  —  quite  as  entertaining,  indeed, 
as  the  mere  narrative  of  many  an  old  romantic 
tragedy. 

And  then,  even  the  most  static  plays,  which  seem 
not  to  move  at  all,  will  be  found,  if  carefully  ex- 
amined, to  work  themselves  out  on  the  old  lines.  There 
is  usually  preparation,  followed  by  complication,  which 
culminates  in  some  crisis,  which  in  its  turn  leads  to 
consequences.  The  external  action  may  be  miracu- 
lously subdued,  the  time  reduced  to  the  shortest  limit, 
the  place  absolutely  centered,  but  the  drama  moves 
nevertheless,  and  that  restlessly  and  rapidly.  The 
scene  of  events  may  be  tlie  soul  or  the  brain,  but 
there  is  always  conflict  and  struggle,  and  somehow  or 
other  the  play  "  gets  along."  Every  important  speech 
leaves  matters  different  from  what  they  were  before, 
and  pushes  on  toward  the  end.     In  fact,  the  psycho- 


184!  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

logical  drama  often  moves  too  rapidly.  It  has  be- 
come as  full  of  adventures  as  a  Drurj  Lane  melodrama. 
One  finds  difficulty^  in  keeping  up  with  it. 

The  Tedium  of  Life 

But  if  the  discussion  as  to  whether  the  psychological 
crisis  can  be  made  dramatic  is  no  longer  before  us, 
there  remains  the  question  of  what  may  be  done  with 
that  part  of  experience  which  is  not  critical  at  all. 
Between  the  climactic  events  of  life,  whether  they  be 
spiritual  or  material,  intervene  long  reaches  of  the  hum- 
drum, the  dull  and  the  commonplace.  May  these  mo- 
notonous tracts  be  brought  into  any  kind  of  relation 
to  dramatic  art? 

Maeterlinck's  plea  was  above  all  else  for  what  we 
are  wont  to  call  the  tedium  of  life.  His  opening 
sentence  is  sufficiently  plain :  "  There  is  a  tragic  ele- 
ment in  the  life  of  every  day  that  is  far  more  real, 
far  more  penetrating,  far  more  akin  to  the  true  self 
that  is  in  us,  than  the  tragedy  that  lies  in  great 
adventure."  His  most  earnest  protest  is  that  in  mo- 
ments of  passion  we  do  not  live  our  truest  lives.  To 
put  it  more  trivially,  the  book  of  life  is  deplorably 
padded,  but  if,  when  it  is  edited  for  the  stage,  the 
padding  is  all  cut  out,  what  is  left  is  apt  to  be  mis- 
leading. In  moments  of  stress  and  strain  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  abnormal,  and  it  is  a  misrepresentation 
of  human  experience  to  make  a  few  such  moments  out- 
weigh in  meaning  the  many  years  when  life  is  normal. 

Opposed  to  this  view  are  many  plausible  theories. 
Supreme  moments,  it  is  argued,  are  always  more  re- 
vealing than  years  of  the  humble  round  and  daily  task. 
Impulsive  action  shows  life  as  by  a  lightning  flash. 


THE    STATIC    PLAY  185 

For  example,  prompt  daring  in  the  face  of  sudden 
danger  is  the  best  evidence  of  courage.  What  the  old 
dramatists  called  surprise  strokes,  falling  in  life,  force 
an  instantaneous  choice,  or  compel  a  headlong  act, 
which  betrays  the  innermost  soul.  Such  focal  moments 
construct  life  into  a  plot,  and  must  ever  be  the  best 
points  upon  which  dramatic  action  can  turn. 

These  shifting  views,  abstract  as  they  are,  have  com- 
posed themselves  into  something  very  tangible.  It  may 
be  that  the  Maeterlinckian  static  theater  will  always 
be  a  mystical  dream;  nevertheless,  the  commonplace 
and  the  unheroic  have  veritably  come  into  their  own 
on  the  stage.  The  best  art  of  the  day,  recognizing 
that  all  life  is  dramatic,  and  that  no  part  of  ex- 
perience can  represent  the  whole,  is  successfully  striv- 
ing to  bring  both  sudden  crises  and  long  stretches  of 
monotony  under  tribute  to  its  greatest  effects. 

Most  of  all,  it  is  ambitious  to  exhibit  the  usual  in 
its  normal  relation  to  the  unusual.  Plays  are  still 
motived  by  critical  and  focal  moments ;  but  all  crises 
are  vigorously  re-enforced  by  what  has  been  finely 
called  the  vitality  of  the  commonplace.  The  fact  that 
it  is  a  great  adventure  for  the  hero  just  to  be  him- 
self, and  for  the  heroine  to  be  herself,  is  recognized 
in  the  general  scheme  of  the  play.  The  creatures  of  the 
stage,  having  no  one  whom  it  behooves  them  to  put  to 
death,  take  time  to  live.  The  force  of  recognition  is 
employed  as  never  before.  Repeated  recognition  of 
experience  and  emotion  that  is  common  to  all  mankind 
is  made  to  precede  tlie  surprise  stroke,  so  that  when 
it  comes  it  has  strength  of  appeal  and  carrying  power 
independent  of  the  author's  words  or  the  actor's 
utterance. 

The   art   of  patiently    representing   life,   instead   of 


186  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

adorning  it  or  refining  it,  has  so  raised  the  critical 
moment  in  dignity  and  spiritual  meaning  that  few  words 
and  little  acting  are  needed.  How  deep  in  the  eternal 
verities  some  of  these  effects  are  based,  it  is  needless 
to  say.  Recall  the  greatest  crisis  of  the  greatest  trag- 
edy of  the  realistic  school.  It  comes  at  the  close  of 
the  first  act  of  "  Ghosts,"  and  it  is  hardly  more  than 
one  short  sentence.  Helen  Alving  cries  "  Ghosts !  The 
couple  from  the  conservatory  has  risen  again!  Come, 
not  another  word !  "     And  no  other  word  is  needed. 

It  has  always  been  said  that  Ibsen's  reduction  of 
the  drama  to  one  central  moment  is  a  marvelous  feat; 
but  the  reduction  of  the  moment  to  pantomime  is  an 
even  greater  triumph.  In  life,  supreme  moments  are 
not  times  when  speech  is  easy.  "  When  nature  is 
dumb,"  said  Dryden,  "  to  make  her  speak  is  to  repre- 
sent her  unlike  herself."  The  modern  drama  endeavors 
to  be  so  normal  and  honest  and  free  from  false  illusion 
on  its  lower  levels  that  when  its  climactic  points  are 
reached  there  needs  no  vast  elaboration  of  grief,  wrath 
or  despair.  It  is  then  that  the  vitality  of  the  common- 
place surcharges  with  tragic  power  the  tersest  and  most 
unrhetorical  utterances. 

And  so  it  is  interesting  to  observe  that  the  static 
play,  which  comes  near  dispensing  with  acting  in  the 
literal  sense,  is  the  play  which  best  illustrates  the  force 
of  pantomime  at  the  right  moment.  The  latter-day 
playwright  knows  his  trade.  He  not  only  recognizes 
that  profound  emotion  is  like  to  close  the  lips,  but  he 
takes  into  account  that  when  little  or  nothing  is  said, 
then  what  is  done  counts  most  heavily.  To  strengthen 
a  pantomimic  climax  so  that  a  gesture  or  a  glance  may 
hold  the  audience  has  always  been  considered  the  sound- 
est dramaturgic  art. 


THE    STATIC    PLAY  187 

Now,  manifestly,  when  action  throughout  the  play  is 
reduced  to  its  lowest  terms,  pantomime  at  the  climax 
is  set  off  as  impressively  as  possible.  Thus,  in  the 
most  inward  and  spiritual  drama,  the  actor's  art  finds 
its  noblest  opportunities.  The  old  foundations  are  not 
undermined,  after  all. 


XVII 
ACTING    SCENERY 

How  it  Helps  the  Play  to  Tell  its  Story 

THE  play  that  is  actor  proof  has  become  familiar 
to  the  public,  and  needs  no  explanation. 

Scenery  that  is  manager  proof  is  something 
newer. 

"  Acting  scenery  "  —  "  the  stage  set  that  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  cast "  —  such  are  some  of  the  phrases 
used  to  describe  the  latest  experiments  in  mounting 
plays. 

The  public  is  not  altogether  clear  as  to  what  these 
terms  mean. 


The  New  Scenery 

The  interesting  question  about  scenery  at  present  is 
not  whether  the  futurists  in  scenic  art  —  Gordon 
Craig,  Max  Reinhardt  and  others  —  are  likely  to  suc- 
ceed; because  we  know  very  well  that,  if  they  keep 
their  heads,  and  avoid  fads  and  extremes,  they  can 
hardly  help  succeeding.  The  value  of  impressionistic 
outlines,  emotional  colors,  illusive  shadows,  and  breadth 
and  simplicity  of  effect  is  recognized  at  once.  The 
philosophy  they  are  working  out  is  not  wholly  novel. 
It  has   always   been   the  province   of   art  to   make   us 


ACTING    SCENERY  189 

see  visions,  rather  than  to  put  before  us  exact  imi- 
tations. Impressionism  is  nothing  new,  on  or  off  the 
stage.  We  know  the  mysterious  effect  of  color,  the 
delight  of  filling  in  vague  outlines  for  ourselves,  the 
imaginative  stimulus  of  deep  masses  of  shadow.  We 
know,  moreover,  that  the  impressionist  is  apt  to  de- 
mand amj)le  space  and  the  utmost  adaptation  in  the 
direction  and  fall  of  light  —  conditions  more  easily  met 
behind  the  proscenium  arch  of  the  well-equipped  theater 
than  on  the  wall  of  the  ordinary  art  gallery. 

The  question  is,  what  connection  can  simple  pic- 
torial scenery  make  with  the  modern,  social,  intimate 
drama,  which  has  rather  more  to  say  to  us  today  than 
spectacle   or  pageant  or   old  romance. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  tables,  chairs,  rugs, 
curtains  and  bookcases  of  an  ordinary  house  do  not 
suggest  the  use  of  impressionistic  outlines  or  symbolic 
colors.  Nor  is  it  easy  to  fancy  a  domestic  scene  from 
Pinero  or  Galsworthy  or  Thomas  acted  against  a  back 
drop  painted  with  a  phantom  drawing-room  or  library. 
We  can  only  hope  the  new  methods  are  as  universally 
adaptable  as  they  claim  to  be.  For  indeed  some  of 
the  common  stage  furnishings  have  been  so  overworked 
in  tlu'  interest  of  weak-minded  plays,  that  if  anybody 
wishes  to  reduce  tliem  to  outlines  we  should  not  ob- 
ject. The  tea-table,  for  example,  and  the  telephone. 
Furthermore,  if  clearing  stage  interiors  of  some  of 
their  ottomans,  sofa  cushions,  foot-stools  and  smoking 
stands  would  make  actors  less  restive,  and  teach  them 
to  keep  still  when  they  are  not  doing  anything,  we 
should  be  glad  of  the  riddance.  The  grateful  repose 
of  tlic  Irish  Players  seemed  traceable  in  a  measure  to 
their  economical  stage  sets. 

But  we  cannot  yet  quite  see  the  harmless  necessary 


190  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


props  of  the  social  drama  sketched  on  canvas,  or  made 
of  cheese-cloth  and  electric  lights,  or  thrown  out  alto- 
gether.   We  await  developments. 

The  Old  Scenery 

Meantime,  much  good  has  promptly  come  from  these 
brave  experiments  in  creating  reality  of  mood  and  feel- 
ing (the  only  reality  that  counts)  by  means  of  unreal 
and  inexpensive  materials  in  illusive  light  and  shadow. 
We  are  roused  to  full  consciousness  of  what  we  have 
long  dimly  felt  —  that  costly  stage  realism  has  o'er- 
leapt  itself  and  begun  to  create  unreality.  Practical 
properties  are  all  very  well;  but  when  they  are  so 
ingenious  and  expensive  as  to  attract  attention  to  them- 
selves, they  are  as  disillusioning  to  an  audience  as  if 
they  were  cheaply  and  absurdly  impractical.  Distrac- 
tion is  distraction,  as  fatal  to  dramatic  illusion  when 
it  results  from  foolish  extravagance  as  when  it  is  mere 
poverty  of  resources. 

For  example:  A  genuine  telephone  switchboard  on 
the  stage  becomes  at  once  the  most  unreal  thing  in 
the  world.  Being  where  it  does  not  belong,  and  where 
it  must  have  been  difficult  to  place,  it  makes  a  sensa- 
tion —  which  it  would  not  in  life.  To  the  audience  it 
is  a  constant  reminder  that  the  stage  where  it  is  fixed 
is  a  stage,  and  not  the  room  which  it  pretends  to  be. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  cheap  make-believe  switchboard 
that  could  not  be  manipulated  at  all  would  not  de- 
stroy the  illusion  more  completely. 

For  another  example:  The  Dutch  interior  which 
served  as  setting  for  the  entire  drama  of  "  The  Return 
of  Peter  Grimm  "  failed  of  making  precisely  the  right 
impression.     It  was   criticised   as   being  too   crowded 


ACTING    SCENERY  191 

with  details.  In  reality  it  was  no  more  crowded  than 
it  ought  to  have  been  to  represent  the  living-room  of 
an  old  house  that  had  been  occupied  for  many  years 
by  a  family  of  Hollanders.  We  never  criticise  Dutch 
paintings  as  being  "  crowded."  The  trouble  was  that 
the  scene,  instead  of  creating  a  unified  impression  of 
a  roomful  of  small  objects,  showed  every  one  of  the 
small  objects  themselves,  thus  dispersing  the  attention. 
In  a  painting  it  would  be  called  the  crudest  of  old 
style  art. 

As  to  the  statement  that  realistic  surroundings  in- 
spire the  actor,  somehow  that  does  not  ring  true.  And 
when  extreme  examples  are  urged,  they  sound  positively 
puerile. 

In  one  of  the  plays  of  last  season,  a  certain  stage 
represented  a  doctor's  office,  with  the  usual  furniture, 
including  a  large  desk  and  a  stack  of  card  index  boxes. 
The  public  was  privileged  to  know  —  press  notices, 
probably  —  that  the  desk  was  completely  filled,  drawers, 
pigeon  holes  and  all,  with  letters  and  papers  such  as  a 
physician  would  accumulate,  all  addressed  to  the  stage 
doctor  or  signed  with  his  name ;  that  the  stationery 
spread  before  him  had  his  name  and  address  on  letter- 
heads and  envelopes ;  and  that,  to  crown  this  triumph 
of  managerial  art,  the  index  boxes  were  full  of  cards, 
every  one  of  which  was  complctel}'^  made  out. 

The  actor  who  played  the  part  of  the  doctor  was 
experienced  and  accomplished.  It  really  seemed  possi- 
ble that  he  might  have  kept  his  impersonation,  even  if 
some  of  those  cards  had  been  left  blank.  In  fact,  any 
actor  who  has  hard  training  back  of  him  is  apt  to 
resent  the  idea  that  his  concept  of  a  part  can  be  made 
to  depend  on  preposterous  realism  which  is  invisible 
or  meaningless  to  the  audience.     An  imagination  that 


192  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

is  superior  to  footlights,  open  flies,  and  canvas  walls  is 
not  likely  to  suffer  from  the  consciousness  that  an  un- 
used drawer  in  a  desk  is  empty.  Moreover,  if  an  actor's 
hold  on  his  part  can  be  strengthened  by  mechanical 
means,  it  may  as  easily  be  weakened,  in  case  some  con- 
traption is  forgotten  in  setting  the  stage.  What  in- 
spires the  intelligent  actor  more  than  anything  else 
that  can  be  furnished  him  in  the  theater  is  a  com- 
fortable, commodious,  well  ventilated  dressing-room. 
Such  humane  accommodation  could  not,  perhaps,  be 
made  to  figure  in  a  startling  press  notice ;  but  it  would 
quite  conceivably  encourage  better  art. 

Difficult  Transition  from  Old  to  New 

Now  as  to  the  cure  for  the  false  realism  which  evokes 
no  mood  in  the  spectator  and  creates  no  artistic  illu- 
sion. It  seems  reasonable  enough  to  say,  as  the 
futurists  do,  that  it  is  useless  to  mitigate  or  change 
the  old  methods  —  that  they  must  be  swept  aside,  and 
a  new  beginning  made.  To  the  impartial  spectator,  a 
great  deal  of  the  laborious  and  costly  scenery  of  the 
day  does  seem  to  be  based  on  wholly  unsound  concepts 
of  dramatic  and  theatric  effect,  so  that  when  it  is 
"  simplified  "  it  looks  to  be  merely  cheapened.  And 
one  point  is  by  now  very  clear  —  that  the  new  stage- 
craft, however  inexpensive,  is  destined  to  be  anything 
but  cheap  in  its  total  impression.  Its  effects  are  costly, 
even  when  little  money  is  used  to  create  them. 

To  illustrate  the  difficulty  in  modifying  conventional 
scenery  according  to  imaginative  methods:  One  of 
the  latest  elaborations  of  realistic  stage  setting  is 
to  create  an  appearance  of  depth,  especially  in  in- 
teriors. Thus,  if  the  place  is  a  living-room  or  a  library, 


ACTING    SCENERY  193 

the  doors  must  give  into  completely  furnished  rooms 
beyond,  so  that  the  scene  may  seem  to  be  in  a  house 
and  not  on  a  stage.  The  room  being  furnished,  not 
to  say  cluttered,  to  the  last  detail,  there  is  apparently 
nothing  for  the  manager  to  do  but  to  burrow  into  the 
background.  Often,  however,  he  defeats  his  own  ends. 
Because,  when  a  door  is  opened,  the  attention  of  the 
audience  goes  through  into  the  inner  room,  losing  all 
account  of  what  the  actors  are  doing  and  saying. 

Now  just  about  the  time  when  realism-run-mad 
began  to  treat  the  stage  as  if  it  were  a  flat  or  a 
model  house  in  a  furniture  store,  the  new  stagecraft 
began  to  devise  precisely  opposite  effects.  Its  back- 
grounds are  meant  to  create  an  impression  of  shallow- 
ness, and  are  skillfully  designed,  not  to  direct  the 
attention  of  the  audience  to  the  depths  of  the  stage, 
but  to  witliliold  or  deflect  it  from  the  drop  curtain, 
and  to  turn  all  eyes  toward  the  actor,  who,  as  the 
distracted  theatergoer  needs  reminding,  is,  after  all, 
more  essential  to  the  play. 

This  is  one  of  the  ways  in  which  the  two  methods 
work  directly  counter  to  each  other.  No  wonder  the 
new  craftsman  thinks  the  crowded  modern  stage  a  poor 
place  to  try  out  his  experiments  in  harmonizing  moods 
and  tenses. 


What  is  "  Acting  Scenery  "  ? 

Many  of  our  contemporary  social  plays  are  so  Greek 
in  their  slinplicity  as  to  make  it  appear  possible  that 
the  simpler  and  iiioif  primitive  traditions  might  be 
revived  in  staging  them. 

Then  there  are  others  which  seem  hardly  separable 
from  the  most  Intricate  of  modern  stagecraft. 


194  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

However,  we  can  all  understand  with  a  little  ex- 
planation what  is  meant  by  "  acting  scenery,"  and 
how  it  favors  the  new  methods. 

When  stage  scenes  are  conceived  by  the  playwright 
along  with  his  characters,  and  are  built  into  the  struc- 
ture of  the  plot,  they  are  then  so  related  to  theme 
and  action,  and  take  such  significance  from  their  part 
in  the  dramatic  scheme,  that  they  create  effects  quite 
independent  of  anything  that  a  manager  can  do  for 
them  —  or  to  them.  Outlines  and  suggestions  are  more 
successful  in  translating  such  effects  than  in  working 
out  unrelated  scenes. 

Usually  when  a  scene  furnishes  an  unobtrusive  back- 
ground, with  everything  in  the  right  key,  it  does  all 
that  it  can  for  a  play.  But  it  is  possible  for  scenery 
to  do  much  more.  It  can  be  made  to  take  up  the 
thread  of  plot  and  tell  the  story  for  a  few  moments, 
thus  relieving  the  colloquy  of  narration,  description 
or  exposition.  We  know  that  this  can  be  done,  because 
we  now  and  then  see,  in  conventional  staging,  a  scene 
that  really  does  act,  thus  becoming,  as  the  new  experi- 
menters say,  a  member  of  the  company. 

The  best  illustration  I  can  recall  offhand  is  from 
a  play  which  is  sincere  and  honest,  but  not  great  — 
"  The  Fortune  Hunter."  The  setting  for  the  third 
act  does  three  things  at  once,  and  does  them  effectually. 
It  tells  the  story  of  an  eventful  winter;  it  helps  out 
the  exposition  after  the  long  interruption ;  and  it  gives 
the  new  act  a  vigorous  forward  impulse. 

All  after  this  fashion : 

Wlien  the  curtain  falls  on  the  second  act,  it  shuts 
from  view  Sam  Graham's  drugstore,  dingy,  poverty- 
stricken  and  forlorn,  a  rusty  stove  in  the  middle,  a 
few  stale  drugs  on  the  shelves,  the  mere  travesty  of 


ACTING    SCENERY  195 

a  soda-water  fountain  at  one  side.  It  is  a  day  in 
September. 

The  playbill  gives  the  information  that  when  the 
curtain  rises  again  it  will  be  spring.  Moreover,  the 
audience  knows,  as  it  generally  does  by  the  time  a  play 
is  half  over,  what  will  be  the  culmination  of  the  plot. 
But  it  is  in  a  state  of  animated  suspense  as  to  just 
how  everything  is  going  to  be  brought  about. 

When  the  curtain  lifts  upon  the  third  act  it  shows 
a  white,  glittering,  electric  lighted,  ultra  modern  drug- 
store, stocked  with  the  most  pictorial  of  patent  medi- 
cines, the  most  decorative  of  candies  and  cigars,  and 
displaying  an  imposing  soda-water  fountain  like  an 
altar  to   all  the  gods  at  once. 

The  audience  gasps  with  delight  at  the  transforma- 
tion, satisfaction  in  its  own  cleverness  (for  it  knew 
Henry  Kellogg  would  make  good)  and  anticipation  of 
what  is  coming. 

The  scene  has  acted.     It  is  in  the  cast. 

Now  the  point  is  not  exactly  that  impressionism 
could  here  be  used  for  realism,  though  I  incline  to  think 
that  in  commonplace  scenes  like  this  the  new  staging 
would  work  very  well.  The  point  is  merely  that  the 
scene  is  so  skillfully  related  to  the  dramatic  action, 
and  takes  so  much  of  its  meaning  from  what  has  hap- 
pened before  and  what  is  going  to  happen  afterward, 
that  it  has  more  carrying  power  in  itself  than  can  be 
given  to  it  by  the  most  superhuman  ingenuity  of  stage- 
craft. It  would  be  effective  even  if  poorly  and  cheaply 
staged  in  the  old  way. 

To  go  a  stop  further: 

Suppose  that,  for  the  sake  of  introducing  some 
other  scene,  it  was  necessary  to  pass  over  the  trans- 
formed drugstore  without  showing  it  to  the  audience. 


196  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

Much  narration  of  what  had  taken  place,  and  much 
description  of  the  new  store,  would  then  have  to  be 
written  into  the  text.  And .  an  audience  never  cares 
to  hear  what  has  been  done,  if  by  any  process  of  crowd- 
ing and  telescoping  events  it  can  be  allowed  to  see  for 
itself.     The  play  would  be  weakened. 

In  the  playwright's  struggle  to  rid  himself  of  non- 
dramatic  and  story-telling  expedients,  scenery,  rightly 
used,  can  be  one  of  his  greatest  helps. 

Another  illustration  of  the  power  of  scenery  to  act 
is  found  in  the  memorable  tent  scene  in  Barrie's  "  The 
Admirable  Crichton."  This  picturesque  interior  tells 
the  story  of  two  years  of  life  a  la  Robinson  Crusoe 
on  a  desert  island;  opens  the  third  act  intelligibly 
without  reminiscence;  and  is  interesting  and  amusing 
on  its  own  account.  It  is  emphatically  in  the  cast,  and 
would  lend  itself  to  artistic  experiment  with  simple 
materials.  If  proof  is  needed  that  the  whole  scene 
is  a  member  of  the  company,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
recall  the  end  of  the  act.  The  incident  that  sends  down 
the  curtain  is,  like  all  dramatic  crises,  seen  as  well 
as  felt  by  the  audience,  there  being  an  appeal  to  the 
eye  simultaneously  with  the  appeal  to  the  emotions. 
When  the  boom  of  the  gun  is  heard,  the  hero  hesitates, 
visibly  struggles  with  himself,  exclaims  "  Bill  Crichton  's 
got  to  play  the  game,"  and  then,  while  the  audience 
breathlessly  watches,  pulls  the  lever  that  lights  the 
signal  to  the  receding  ship.  Thus  the  culmination 
grows  directly  out  of  the  material  surroundings.  The 
scenery  is  as  truly  a  member  of  the  company  as 
Crichton  or  Lady  Mary.     It  would  please  the  futurists. 

By  way  of  contrast,  conceive  of  an  act  (and  modern 
plays  furnish  many  examples)  which  would  play  almost 
equally   well    against    any   background.      Perhaps    the 


ACTING    SCENERY  19T 

stage  is  set  with  an  entrance  hall  which,  merely  to 
make  a  brighter  picture,  has  a  door  and  window  opening 
into  a  garden.  But  neither  hall  nor  garden  is  neces- 
sary. If  that  scenery  were  left  behind  or  burned  up, 
something  else  out  of  the  storehouse  —  a  living  room 
or  a  library  or  a  veranda  —  would  do  as  well.  The 
speeches  have  not  gro^vn  out  of  the  surroundings,  nor 
have  the  surroundings  reacted  upon  the  mood  and 
spirit  of  the  characters.  The  colloquy  has  been  manu- 
factured in  some  rarefied  atmosphere,  remote  from  the 
world. 

Now  when  the  imagination  of  the  audience  is  not 
in  the  least  stimulated,  it  cannot  be  expected  to  fill  in 
outlines  or  to  people  shady  corners  with  dim  figures. 
Nothing  can  be  done  with  an  act  like  this  but  to  stage 
it  as  literally  as  possible.  Impressionism  is  helpless 
with  an  act  so  detached  from  the  plot,  mood  and  theme 
of  the  play.    The  scene  is  not  a  member  of  the  company. 

Corrective  Influence  of  New  Stagecraft 

Some  one  recently  said  that  a  stage  director  ought 
to  be  able  to  think  in  scenery  and  electric  lights.  But 
for  the  finest  effects,  it  is  the  dramatist  who  must 
think  in  outline,  color,  light  and  shade  all  the  time 
that  he  is  thinking  in  the  speeches  and  actions  of 
his  characters.  Then  his  plays  will  be  so  harmonious 
and  organic,  and  will  take  such  admirable  shape,  that 
it  will  be  easy  to  stage  them  by  simple  means ;  and, 
per  contra,  hard  for  the  most  realistic  manager  to 
distort  or  damage  them.  The  spirit  and  mood  of  each 
act  can  be  quickly  captured  and  easily  interpreted,  and 
there  will  be  no  g'ips  to  tempt  the  intrusion  of  unre- 
lated novelties.     And  it  is  to  be  hoped  that,  when  there 


198  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

are  more  plays  like  this,  if  stage  pictures  are  "  held  " 
anywhere,  it  will  not  be  at  the  end  of  the  acts,  where 
they  destroy  all  continuity,  but  at  the  beginning,  so 
that  they  can  talk  a  little  in  their  own  dumb  language, 
before  the  speeches  begin. 

At  present,  scenes  that  help  to  get  the  story  told 
seem  rather  casually  introduced  into  plays.  Acting 
scenery  is  not  one  of  the  ideals  of  dramatic  art.  But 
when  the  new  stagecraft  begins  to  prevail,  its  influence 
will  be  corrective  and  sanative.  With  nothing  spec- 
tacular to  help  them  out,  plays  will  strengthen  in  all 
that  is  truly  dramatic,  and  will  have  so  much  scenic  art 
in  their  very  structure  that  they  can  be  interpreted  with 
an  economy  of  ways  and  means  hitherto  undreamed  of. 

And  incidentally  there  ought  to  be  one  social  and 
progressive  outcome;  namely,  cheaper  seats  in  the 
theaters. 

The  new  stagecraft  is  at  least  deserving  of  our  in- 
terest and  good  wishes. 


XVIII 

BRITISH    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN 
ENGLISH 

On  and  Off  the  Stage 

Purity  of  speech  on  our  stage  does  n't  exist.  Every  one  speaks  as 
he  likes,  and  audiences  never  notice;  it 's  the  last  thing  they  think 
of.  The  place  is  given  up  to  abominable  dialects  and  individual  tricks, 
any  vulgarity  flourishes,  and  on  top  of  it  all  the  Americans,  with  every 
conceivable  crudity,  come  in  to  make  confusion  worse  confounded. 
And  when  one  laments  it,  people  stare;  they  don't  know  what  one 
means.  —  Henby  James. 

IT  has  more  than  once  been  asserted  that  the  worst 
English  in  the  world  is  spoken  in  England.  The 
statement  sounds  excessive,  but  on  the  whole  it 
seems  to  be  somewhere  near  the  truth,  though  it  is  not 
the  whole  truth.  The  rustic  dialects  of  some  of  the 
shires  are  almost  unintelligible  to  outsiders;  and  what 
is  most  amazing  of  all,  the  common  speech  of  one 
county  persists  in  remaining  as  unlike  that  of  another, 
however  closely  adjacent,  as  a  turnip  is  unlike  (to  be 
very  local)  a  mangel-wurzel. 

Furthermore,  the  worst  crimes  against  the  noble 
language  of  our  birth  are  perpetrated  in  the  capital  of 
the  British  empire;  for  cockney  Engli.sh  is  devoid  of 
even  the  striking  picturesque  phrases  and  significant 
strong  words  that  survive  in  the  language  of  the  coun- 
tryside. Anything  more  atrocious  in  pronunciation 
and  idiom  than  the  English  of  the  swarming  millions 


200  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

of  London  it  would  be  difficult  to  conceive.  There  can 
hardly  be  found  anything  to  match  it  on  our  side  of 
the  water.  And  this  is  not  a  distinctively  American 
observation,  but  a  view  frankly  conceded  by  the  en- 
lightened Englishman  himself. 

That  the  worst  English  is  spoken  in  England  is,  how- 
ever, a  half-truth  only.  The  other  half-truth  is  that 
the  best  English  in  the  world  —  that  which  is  most 
fully  in  accord  with  the  native  genius  and  characteristic 
spirit  of  the  language  —  is  also  spoken  in  England. 
In  the  land  of  extremes,  where  are  found  the  worst  and 
the  best,  the  cheapest  and  the  costliest,  the  tawdriest 
and  the  finest  of  everything  under  the  sun  —  in  that 
land,  the  hearing  ear  may  one  moment  be  grievously 
afflicted  and  the  next  gratified  and  charmed. 

The  aforesaid  enlightened  Englishman  has  been 
known  to  put  the  case  for  the  defense  of  his  mother 
tongue  in  this  way :  "  Take  a  man  Avho  has  come  out 
of  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  let  him  move  in  good  society, 
and  give  him  now  and  then  foreign  travel  enough  to 
knock  off  his  insularity,  and  there  you  are !  "  And 
the  enlightened  American,  not  to  be  outdone  in  frank- 
ness, is  willing  to  admit  that  there  he  is  indeed.  What- 
ever excellence  we  may  reach  in  the  future,  American 
English  is  not  now  the  equal  of  British  English  at  its 
very  best. 

Two  points  are  noticeable  in  such  a  typical  speech 
as  the  one  just  quoted.  First,  cultivated  society  is 
insisted  upon  as  necessary  to  the  perfecting  of  a  good 
spoken  style.  One  is  tempted  to  say  that  what  the 
dictionary  is  to  an  American,  society  is  to  an  English- 
man. Possibly  it  would  do  no  harm  if  we,  for  our 
part,  could  get  the  dictionary  more  under  our  feet  (it 
is  comfortable  to  stand  on   occasionall}^,  but   cumber- 


BRITISH  ENGLISH,  AMERICAN  ENGLISH    201 

some  to  carry  about),  and  it  might  be  as  well  if  the 
British,  for  their  part,  could  be  persuaded  into  a  more 
friendly  attitude  toward  the  authorities,  even  though 
one  of  the  most  widely  accepted,  Noah  Webster  by 
name,  did  happen  to  be  a  Yankee. 

It  surprises  an  Englishman  when  his  American 
friends  fall  back  upon  rules  and  references,  as  if  lan- 
guage belonged  exclusively  to  students ;  and  it  dis- 
courages an  American  when  his  British  friends  trust 
too  entirely  in  the  matter  of  style  to  their  God-given 
instinct  as  native-born  Englishmen.  This  last,  not  only 
because  it  makes  the  American  feel  rather  out  of  it, 
but  because  the  native  instinct  has  been  known,  even 
in  the  best  society,  to  lead  toward  a  pronunciation 
and  syntax  more  surprising  than  anything  in  any 
dictionary. 

The  other  interesting  point  is  the  mention  of  foreign 
languages,  which  certainly  affect  spoken  style  in  a  way 
not  to  be  ignored.  In  our  vast  land,  we  have  no  in- 
sularity to  knock  off;  but  when  vacation  time  comes 
around,  we  may  well  envy  the  Englishman  his  nearness 
to  Germany,  and  especially  to  France.  Paris  has  been 
brought,  by  quick  boats  and  trains,  so  close  to  London 
that  it  is  possible  any  day  to  lunch  in  one  city  and  dine 
in  the  other ;  and  yet,  quickly  as  it  may  be  made,  the 
transition  from  the  British  capital  to  that  wonderful 
French  capital  wliich  is  France  itself  is  like  passing 
from  one  world  into  another.  In  language,  customs, 
and  habitudes  of  thought,  tlie  difference  between  the 
two  peoples,  founded  as  it  is  deep  in  those  racial  traits 
which  keep  them  distinct  as  if  the  seas  rolled  broad  be- 
tween, is  essential  and  stimulating.  The  Englishman's 
annual  holiday  on  the  continent  may  be  no  better  as  an 
outing  than  the  ordinary  American  vacation ;   but  it  is 


202  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

undeniably  different.  The  educated  man  of  whatever 
nationality  seldom  changes  his  skies,  for  even  a  few 
weeks,  without  consciously  or  unconsciously  limbering 
his  tongue  and  gaining  fluency  and  expressiveness  in  his 
own  language. 

The  best  British  English,  then,  is  for  one  reason  or 
another  not  quite  like  the  best  American  English.  It  is 
interesting  to  make  comparisons ;  it  always  is  interest- 
ing to  compare  anything  British  with  anything  Ameri- 
can, doubtless  because  there  is  sufficient  background  of 
likeness  to  throw  the  unlikeness  into  high  relief. 

The  difference  is  generally  said  to  be  in  the  accent. 
But  in  the  minds  of  most  people  accent  seems  to  be 
more  or  less  confounded  with  inflection  and  emphasis. 
Now  it  is  manifest  to  the  dullest  ear  that  the  spoken 
language  of  the  British  Isles  does  indeed  inflect  and 
emphasize  after  its  own  fashion,  which  is  not  at  all 
the  fashion  of  American  speech.  But  these  matters 
have  nothing  to  do  with  accent. 

Inflection  is  merely  the  bending  of  a  sentence  up  or 
down  at  one  or  more  points  in  the  length  of  it.  It  is 
curious  to  observe  that  wherever  an  English  voice 
goes  up,  an  American  voice  is  pretty  sure  to  come  down ; 
and  that  whenever  an  Englishman  makes  a  full  stop, 
an  American  "  curls  the  sentence  up  at  the  end."  (That 
last  is  an  imaginative  Briton's  description.)  The  Eng- 
lishman finds  much  entertainment  in  these  contrasts, 
seeing  nothing  right  nor  wrong  about  any  twist  that  a 
sentence  may  take.  It  is  Americans  who  are  fond  of 
laws  and  who  make  any  number  of  them  to  govern 
themselves.  All  things  considered,  since  we  live  in 
the  land  of  the  free,  and  Britons  never  have  been 
slaves,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  anybody  on 
either  side   of  the  water  may  bend  a  sentence  up  or 


BRITISH  ENGLISH,  AMERICAN  ENGLISH    203 

down  or  sideways  as  he  pleases,  without  being  consid- 
ered "  incorrect."  The  most  that  may  be  said  is  that 
the  English  voice,  having  a  way  of  rising  a  little  higher 
and  descending  a  little  deeper  than  the  American,  is 
less  monotonous  and  often  rather  pleasanter  to  the  ear. 

As  for  emphasis,  it  sounds  plausible  to  declare  that 
important  words  must  be  stressed.  But  then,  what  are 
the  important  words  in  any  sentence?  To  us,  the  Eng- 
lish seem  almost  as  likely  to  come  down  upon  prepo- 
sitions and  conjunctions  as  upon  verbs  and  nouns,  while 
to  the  English  our  emphasis  is  just  as  unaccountable, 
and  is  apt,  moreover,  to  sound  jerky  and  labored,  re- 
calling the  schoolboy's  definition  —  that  emphasis  means 
putting  more  distress  in  one  place  than  in  another. 
And  discussions  about  the  relative  importance  of  this 
word  or  that  usually  resolve  themselves  at  last  into 
mere  differences  of  opinion. 

But  as  regards  accent,  which  always,  outside  of  verse, 
means  pronunciation  accent,  we  may  be  definite  with- 
out danger  of  falling  into  pedantry  or  opinionism. 
English  being  a  highly  derivative  language,  the  firm 
accent  which  distinguishes  a  root  syllable  from  its  pre- 
fixes and  suffixes  is  of  tlie  utmost  value;  and  it  is  a 
fact  that  the  best  of  British  English  achieves  this  clean 
accentuation  without  indistinctness  elsewhere  in  the 
word.  The  failure  to  mark  the  primary  accent  by 
a  sharp  pcrcucrjion  is  what  causes  the  American  drawl, 
with  which  our  ears  are  so  constantly  assailed  that  we 
hear  it  with  indifference.  Nothing  illustrates  it  much 
better  than  the  old  sentence  out  of  JNIartin  Chuzzlewit 
—  "  No  such  lo-ca-t\on  in  the  ter-ri-to-ry  of  the  great 
U-ni-tod  States." 

In  the  word  "  territory,"  for  example,  the  primary 
accent  very  obviously  should  fall  upon  the  first  sylla- 


204  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

ble,  and  the  secondary  accent  (much  lighter)  upon  the 
third,  the  other  syllables  being  unstressed.  A  degen- 
erate British  utterance  (all  too  common,  as  has  been 
intimated)  would  make  the  word  ^^r-ri-try.  The  drawl- 
ing American  strikes  the  third  syllable  quite  as  hard  as 
the  first.  The  perfect  utterance,  to  which  we  are  rarely 
treated  anywhere,  by  anyone,  on  the  stage  or  off,  is 
firm  on  the  first  syllable  and  then  light  on  the  third,  in 
which  the  long  vowel  sound  is  carefully  conserved. 

As  for  such  words  as  lo-ca-tion,  sal-va-iion,  po-lit- 
ical,  pre-cise-ly,  they  are,  if  possible,  even  worse  in  the 
drawl  with  which  our  very  walls  re-echo ;  for  their  first 
syllables  have  properly  no  accent  at  all. 

It  is  perhaps  digressing  to  say  that  in  the  preserva- 
tion of  pure  vowel  sounds  in  unaccented  syllables  there 
is  no  doubt  that  the  service  of  the  Anglican  church, 
familiar  to  Englishmen  throughout  so  many  genera- 
tions, has  exerted  an  influence.  The  choir  boy  who 
chants  "  Restore  those  who  are  penitent  "  is  fairly  safe  in 
later  years  not  to  indulge  in  such  crudities  as  "  r'store  " 
and  "  penit'nt  " ;  and  if  he  intones  "  quietness  "  and 
"  trusted  "  so  that  the  final  syllables  are  not  lost  under 
the  vast  roof  that  bends  above  him,  his  common  par- 
lance is  the  less  likely  to  be  marred  by  "  quietnus  "  or 
"  trustid." 

A  good  accent,  then,  has  to  do  with  pronunciation 
rather  than  with  inflection  or  emphasis,  and  properly 
means  the  vigorous  stressing  of  root  syllables,  without 
prejudice  to  the  distinct  and  audible  utterance  of  un- 
stressed syllables,  or  the  purity  of  their  vowel  sounds, 
long  or  short.  We  are  apt  to  say  that  such  an  accent 
makes  the  utterance  very  neat  and  shows  cultivation ; 
but  it  does  far  more.  Fidelity  to  the  genius  of  our 
language,  to  its  characteristic  mode  of  growth  and  ex- 


BRITISH  ENGLISH,  AMERICAN  ENGLISH    205 

pansion,  lends  it  individuality  by  setting  it  off  from 
other  living  languages,  and  brightens  and  strengthens 
and  vitalizes  the  whole  diction.  Best  of  all,  it  confers 
an  effortless  fluency  and  distinctness  which,  to  be  quite 
fair,  we  have  yet  to  master  in  our  country. 

At  this  point  there  is  always  some  one  to  protest 
that  the  American  drawl  is  no  worse  than  the  English 
indistinctness,  which  in  its  aggravated  form  is  so  mad- 
dening to  the  unaccustomed.  On  the  whole,  it  is  prob- 
ably not  so  bad.  But  we  should  be  less  inclined  to  such 
futile  comparisons  if  we  had  a  standard  wliich  would 
make  both  drawl  and  indistinctness  objectionable. 

The  Actor's  Responsibility 

Everyone  agrees  that  the  stage  might  do  much  for 
our  long-suffering  language ;  but  whether  actors  or 
audiences  are  most  to  blame  for  the  depression  of  the 
"  standard  "  of  which  we  hear  so  much,  it  would  be 
hard  to  say.  The  responsibility  seems  to  be  distributed. 
Certainly  at  present  the  American  actor's  influence  upon 
his  mother  tongue  is  not  always  beneficial. 

Leaving  accent  out  of  count  altogether,  as  too  funda- 
mental to  be  easily  perfected,  one  often  hears  in  repu- 
table presentations  of  our  best  plays  such  afflicting 
diction  as  this :  "  I  wuz  supprised  t'  hear  it.  I  cannot 
bullieve  it.  It  is  a  mustake."  And  when  the  hero  is 
overwhelmed  with  "  r'morse,"  the  slurring  is  (or 
should  be)  as  disillusioning  as  a  sneeze  in  the  midst  of 
an  apostrophe. 

It  is  possible  that  the  over-valuation  of  dialect  by 
both  dramatists  and  actors  has  in  recent  years  exerted 
a  baleful  liifhuiice  upon  purity  of  speech.  The  dialects 
of  the  Scotch,  the  Irish,  the  Negroes  and  the  Yankees 


206  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

may  be  "  quaint  "  and  "  fascinating,"  but,  after  all, 
they  have  been  used  to  create  some  very  cheap  effects. 
As  the  late  T.  B.  Aldrich  once  said  (he  abhorred 
dialect),  the  English  language  is  too  rich  and  sacred 
a  thing  to  be  thus  mutilated  and  vulgarized.  It  might 
be  worth  while  to  try  making  a  sensation  with  a  fine 
accent  now  and  then.  At  present  it  could  hardly  fail 
to  have  a  quaintness  of  its  own. 

British  Accent 

British  accent  is  often  considered  to  be  a  superficial 
matter.  Not  infrequently  the  actor  who  has  laboriously 
drilled  himself  into  saying  bean  for  been  and  nyther 
for  neither  and  carstle  for  castle  seems  to  think  he 
is  highly  cultivated.  But  the  firm,  clean  pronunciation 
accent  that  marks  the  best  of  British  English  is  for 
many  reasons  difficult  of  cultivation.  It  is  based  upon  a 
knowledge  of  derivatives,  and  it  implies  a  loyal  admira- 
tion for  our  own  language  as  contradistinguished  from 
other  languages  and  dialects.  It  brings,  however,  its 
own  rewards,  not  the  least  of  which  is  the  inevitable 
curing  away  of  many  small  errors  and  crudities. 


CHAPTER    XIX 
THE    PLAY    FOR    CHILDREN 

Illustrated  by  "  Chantecler  "  and  "  The  Piper  " 

IN  considering  the  question  of  plays  for  children, 
we  come  upon  one  of  the  curious  paradoxes  often 
encountered  in  drama  study.  The  play  of  child 
life,  in  which  the  leading  characters  are  children,  has 
a  strange  fascination  for  grown  people ;  while  a  certain 
kind  of  play  which  makes  no  effort  at  "  adapting  "  to 
the  youthful  mind,  but  deals  simply  and  boldly  with  the 
eternal  verities  of  hope,  joy,  love,  ambition  and 
courage,  is  extremely  interesting  to  children. 

The  explanation  seems  to  be  that  plays  of  child  life 
are  attractive  to  adults  because  they  appeal  to  their 
memories  of  childhood  and  carry  them  back  to  the 
mystic  morning-land  of  youth.  But  children,  having 
only  the  briefest  memories  to  which  any  appeal  can  be 
made,  and  dwelling  continually  in  their  own  morning- 
land,  take  greater  pleasure  in  looking  forward  than 
backward.  To  them  it  is  the  future  which  is  magical 
and  irradiated. 

Announcement  has  just  been  made  that  a  children's 
version  of  "  The  Bhie  Bird  "  is  in  press.  As  Tyltyl 
and  Mytyl,  the  little  hero  and  heroine  of  all  the  varied 
adventures  in  Maeterlinck's  charming  play,  are  young- 
sters less  than  twelve  years  old,  the  need  of  this  new 


208  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

version  is  an  apt  commentary  upon  the  prevalent  notion 
that  a  play  is  suitable  for  the  child  merely  because  some 
of  its  characters  are  children. 

To  solve  the  problem  of  what  kind  of  literature, 
dramatic  or  otherwise,  is  best  for  children,  would  be  to 
enter  fully  into  the  heart  of  childhood  —  a  place  which 
grown  people  might  as  well  admit  is  somewhat 
inaccessible. 

But  there  is  one  sort  of  drama  which  children  always 
see  with  wholesome  enjoyment,  and  which,  however 
profound  its  final  implications,  never  overtaxes  their 
minds  or  overstimulates  their  emotions.  It  is  the  kind 
of  great  play  which  is  easily  and  perfectly  intelligible 
to  the  child  as  far  as  he  can  interpret  it  at  all,  and 
which,  in  withholding  its  deepest  meanings,  is  never  mis- 
leading or  confusing.  Such  a  play,  seen  in  childhood, 
makes  a  prosperous  beginning  in  the  training  of  the 
little  theater-goer;  for  his  first  impressions,  slight 
though  they  must  be,  are  so  absolutely  true  and  right 
that  they  need  no  correcting  in  later  life,  but  can  be 
deepened  and  strengthened  into  complete  appreciation. 

This  means  a  storing  up  of  enjoyment  for  the 
future.  For  when  a  great  play,  seen  in  years  of 
maturity,  not  only  works  its  present  magic  spell,  but 
recalls  at  the  same  time  the  delight  with  which  it  was 
witnessed  in  childhood  —  then  the  pleasure  of  play- 
going  is  at  its  height. 

Rostand's  "  Chantecler  "  and  Miss  Peabody's  "  The 
Piper,"  fundamentally  different  in  all  else,  are  alike  in 
the  relation  they  bear  to  the  literature  of  childhood. 
Neither  play  was  written  for  children ;  in  neither  play 
is  there  a  child  hero  or  heroine.  But  the  greatest 
moments  in  both  plays  —  the  dawn  scene  in  "  Chante- 
cler," for  example,  and  the  return  of  the  Piper  with  his 


THE    PLAY    FOR    CHILDREN  209 

band  of  little  followers  —  make  that  universal  appeal 
to  young  and  old,  wise  and  simple,  which  always  in- 
dicates the  best  drama  for  children. 


"CHANTECLER,"   FOR  ILLUSTRATION 
By  Edmokd  Rostand 

This  play  has  proved  a  delightsome  piece  for 
children,  better  than  "The  Blue  Bird,"  better 
than  "Peter  Pan,"  or  "The  Piper."  And  its 
direct  appeal  to  the  child  points  to  much  that  is  sig- 
nificant in  the  play  and  in  the  French  people. 

The  pages  of  "  Chantecler  "  are  full  of  jokes  that 
prosper  by  themselves,  having  no  depth  of  meaning 
except  to  the  overcurious.  Indeed,  some  of  the  non- 
sense is  quite  on  the  kindergarten  level.  Chantecler 
describes  the  garden  hose  as  a  snake  ending  like  a 
sprinkling  can,  the  Blackbird  calls  the  watering  pot  a 
bald  pate  with  silver  hair  flowing  from  his  copper  scalp, 
and  Chantecler  uses  a  morning-glory  vine  for  a  tele- 
phone, with  one  of  the  blossoms  for  a  receiver.  The 
Blackbird  refers  to  the  stag  as  "  a  kind  of  a  hatrack," 
and  orders  the  darning  needle  to  mend  the  ragged 
robins ;  and  Chantecler  shelters  the  incubator  chicks 
under  his  wing  "  because  their  mother  is  a  box." 

For  older  children  there  are  other  jests,  equally 
quaint  and  naive.  The  Blackbird  observes  that  the 
weasel  often  messes  his  shirt  front  with  an  omelet,  and 
that  the  mole  is  late  because  she  comes  by  the  subway. 
The  guinea  hen  invites  the  ])heasant  to  her  salon  "  to 
partake  of  a  simple  snail,"  and  adds  that  the  tortoise 
has  kindly  said,  "  You  may  expect  me."     The  tufted 


210  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

hen  cries  at  sound  of  a  loud  honk !  honk !  "  Now  every- 
thing we  eat  will  taste  of  gasoline."  When  the  white 
hen  finds  a  nice  crisp  bug  and  the  other  hens  come  on  a 
run  to  see  what  she  is  eating,  the  children  can  be 
trusted  to  laugh,  though  their  comments  may  not  be 
so  profound  as  the  English  Review  which  remarks, 
"  Scratcliing  for  food  is  the  serious  business  of  life," 
etc. 

When  the  old  hen  in  the  covered  basket  pops  up, 
as  she  often  does,  to  shoot  out  a  proverb,  she  seems 
to  be  playing  to  children,  even  in  the  selection  of  her 
maxims. 

The  brilliant  and  picturesque  style  is  enchanting  to 
every  one.     For  illustration: 

The  Pheasant  Hen  (runs  to  the  brink  of  the  hillside 
and  listens).  I  hear  a  finger  knocking  against  the  rim 
of  a  brazen  sky. 

Chantecler  (with  closed  eyes).     The  Angelus. 

The  Pheasant  Hen  (continuing  to  listen).  Sounds 
as  of  a  bird's  nest  fallen  into  a  little  street. 

Chantecler.    The  school ! 

And  the  pigeon  celebrates  the  cock  as  "  the  one 
whose  cry,  like  a  golden  needle,  stitches  the  blue  hill- 
tops to  the  sky." 

But  these  are  details.  Is  there  enough  that  is  sim- 
ple and  unsophisticated  to  make  a  play,  and  would 
it  be  interesting?     Let  us  see. 

The  prologue,  which  explains  the  sounds  behind  the 
curtain,  is  ideal.  Nothing  could  be  better  as  a  first  call 
for  children's  attention.  Indeed,  it  has  more  than  once 
been  likened  to  the  opening  of  "  Peter  Pan." 

Then,  nothing  could  be  better  than  the  arrival  of 
the  postman  pigeon,  or  the  incident  of  the  butterfly 
and  the  net,  which  is  the  cue  for  Chantecler  to  enter. 


THE    PLAY    FOR    CHILDREN  211 


The  hymn  to  the  sun  is,  in  any  translation/  of  an  ex- 
quisite clarity.    To  quote  part  of  a  stanza : 

The  hayrick  by  thy  favor  boasts  a  golden  cape, 
And  the  rick's  little  sister,  the  thatched  hive, 
^ears,  by  thy  grace,  a  hood  of  gold. 

Next  come  the  orders  to  the  chicks  as  to  the  slugs  to 
be  picked  up  before  evening,  to  the  cockerel  as  to  his 
voice  practice,  and  to  the  hens  as  to  their  duties  among 
the  vegetables.  Then  follows  the  colloquy  with  the 
saucy  blackbird  and  Patou,  the  good  old  dog,  much  of 
which  is  merely  frolicsome  humor.  At  this  point  in 
flies  the  terrified  pheasant,  escaping  from  a  hunting  dog. 
The  danger  being  over,  Chantecler  offers  her  his  wing 
for  a  little  stroll,  and  does  the  honors  of  the  farmyard. 
The  guinea  hen  bustles  in  to  invite  the  stranger  to  her 
five  o'clock  tea  (next  morning),  and  the  act  closes  with 
the  poultry  falling  asleep,  but  the  creatures  of  the 
night  opening  their  green  or  golden  eyes. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  we  have  that 
extraordinary  scene,  the  roll  call  of  the  night  birds, 
at  every  name  two  big,  round  eyes  brightening  in  the 
dark.  From  the  child's  standpoint,  the  hymn  to  night 
could  be  omitted,  not  as  difficult,  but  as  too  horrific; 
and  the  plot  to  have  Chantecler  challenged  by  the  Game 
Cock  at  the  reception  could  be  dis])osed  of  in  a  few 
speeches.  But  Chantecler's  great  lyrical  monologue  to 
the  Pheasant  Hen  while  morning  brightens  all  about 
and  beneath  them  could  be  kept  entire. 

Rarely  is  a  lyric  outburst  inspired  by  emotions  so 
deep  and  uncomplicated,  and  seldom  is  its  dramatic 
setting  so  well  calculated  to  make  a  universal  appeal. 
Young  and  old,  wise  and  simple,  must  tbrill  to  tlic  lines 

■  The  quotations  are  from  the  translation  by  Gertrude  Hall. 


212  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

of  the  daybreak  scene.  The  complete  meaning  of  some 
of  the  symbols  is  for  later  thought,  or  for  fireside  read- 
ing; but  the  first  sublime  impression,  strengthened  by 
the  kindling  sky,  is  instantaneous. 

The  gibes  of  the  Blackbird,  and  Chantecler's  trick 
of  turning  the  flower  pot  over  him,  so  that,  for  his 
sins,  he  can  see  nothing  but  the  sky,  bring  the  act  to 
a  whimsical  close. 

The  third  act  is  the  Guinea  Hen's  fashionable  crush. 
The  Magpie,  in  butler's  black  and  white,  announces  the 
amazingly  variegated  fowls,  among  them  foreigners 
from  all  over  the  world.  Much  of  the  conversation, 
being  a  satire  upon  make-believe  literary  salons,  is 
beyond  any  child.  In  fact,  it  is  said  that  some  of  the 
wit  missed  fire  even  among  the  Parisians.  But  the 
board  of  investigation  into  the  Gallidoodle  Movement 
is  quite  obviously  funny,  especially  when  the  members 
illustrate  their  theories  as  to  methods  of  crowing. 

As  for  the  cock  fight,  nothing  can  justify  that  to  any 
audience;  but  it  is  perhaps  a  little  less  incongruous 
if  the  party  is  regarded  as  merely  a  joke.  The  uncere- 
monious haste  with  which  the  guests  depart  when  the 
call  to  food  (chick  —  chick  —  chick!)  is  heard  from 
the  farmyard  makes  another  whimsical  ending,  just  as 
the  Magpie  announces,  "  The  Tortoise !  " 

Last,  the  forest  act,  which  opens  with  the  prayer  of 
the  small  birds  to  St.  Francis,  a  passage  next  in  beauty 
to  the  rhapsody  at  dawn.  Then  pours  forth  the  Night- 
ingale's song,  which  Chantecler  generously  delights  in 
and  which  all  the  wild  things  of  the  wood  interpret, 
each  in  his  own  way.  Chantecler's  grief  when  the  bird 
is  brought  down  by  a  chance  shot  is  simpler  in  effect 
than  his  despair  when  he  learns  that  the  sun  has  risen 
without  his  clarion  call,  or  his  spiritual  exaltation  when 


THE    PLAY    FOR    CHILDREN  213 

the  Nightingale's  crystal  note  is  taken  up  by  another 
songster.  But  from  that  point  to  the  end  the  story 
runs  clear. 

Chantecler  starts  for  home  with  good  old  Patou,  but 
having  learned  to  use  liis  wings  in  the  forest  is  marked 
by  the  poacher.  The  Pheasant  flies  up  to  save  him, 
but  in  her  haste  falls  into  a  snare.  Just  then  is  heard 
his  far  off  reassuring  note,  and  the  curtain  falls  upon 
the  morning  prayer  of  the  little  birds. 


The  French  Ideal  of  Clearness  and  Lucidity 

On  the  whole,  it  would  be  quite  as  descriptive  to 
say  that  "  Chantecler "  is  a  play  for  children  with 
some  appeal  to  their  elders,  as  to  call  it  a  serious  drama 
with  a  strong  appeal  to  the  child.  In  other  words, 
the  freshest,  the  most  creative,  the  most  dramatic  part 
of  the  play  is  for  a  public  made  up  of  all  ages. 
Which  is  merely  another  way  of  saying  that  the 
play  is  French,  with  the  qualities  that  make  French 
literature  unique  in  all  the  world.  Behind  and  under- 
neath it  is  the  spirit  of  La  Fontaine  and  all  the  inde- 
structible traditions  of  the  beast  epic,  a  living  lasting 
influence,  strongly  exerted  upon  old  and  young.  The 
vitality  of  these  traditions  and  the  breadth  of  their 
appeal  is  based  deep  in  the  racial  traits  of  the  French 
people.  In  no  other  nation  does  a  certain  juvenility 
so  long  survive  the  age  of  childhood,  in  no  other  nation 
is  there  that  high  ideal  of  clearness  and  lucidity  which 
gives  great  thoughts  such  perfect  expression  as  to  need 
no  adapting  for  youthful  minds. 

In  English  and  German  there  is  literature  for  chil- 
dren on  the  one  hand,  and  for  grown-ups  on  the  other, 
but  in  neither  language  would  it  be  quite  possible  to 


214  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


do  what  Rostand  has  done  in  "  Chantecler."  For  here 
is  a  splendid  lyric  and  dramatic  impulse  worked  out 
in  a  fashion  that  always  charms  the  child  —  with  fresh 
ingenuity,  antic  humor,  untiring  inventiveness,  and  the 
utmost  brilliancy  and  picturesqueness.  The  greatest 
effects  are  great  even  to  the  child. 

"THE   PIPER/'   FOR  ANOTHER   ILLUSTRATION 

By  Josephine  Preston  Pea  body 

■  Take  heart!    I  swear,  by  all  the  stars  that  chime, 
I  '11  not  have  things  in  cages. 

In  this  play,  an  old  legend  has  been  firmly  seized 
and  boldly  handled,  has  been  imaginatively  refreshed 
and  enriched  without  being  distorted,  and  has  been 
subjected  to  thorough  dramatic  transformation  in  every 
part.  The  human  nature  that  inheres  in  all  world 
famous  myths  has  been  used  to  illustrate  certain  phases 
of  modem  life,  and  to  interpret  some  of  the  modern 
thoughts  that  breed  thought. 

The  material  is  the  story  of  the  Pied  Piper  of 
Hamelin,  familiar  in  Browning's  poem.  In  the  process 
of  recasting  for  play-making  purposes  the  supernatural 
element  seems  to  have  been  banished  as  far  as  possible. 

In  the  old  story  the  Piper  is  a  creature  of  pure  fancy, 
who  might  have  come  out  of  one  of  Grimm's  Tales.  In 
the  play  he  is  a  strolling  gypsy,  belonging  to  a  band  of 
mummers  which  wanders  from  town  to  town  with  a  rude 
Noah's  Ark  miracle  play.  This  gives  him  a  matter  of 
fact  setting  among  several  other  mountebanks,  one  of 
whom,  Michael,  the  gallant  sword  swallower,  falling  in 
love  with  the  lily  maiden  Barbar^j,  furnishes  a  romance 
as  the  slight  plot  develops. 

In  the  original  myth  the  mountain  side  miraculously 


THE    PLAY    FOR    CHILDREN  215 

opens  to  admit  the  Piper  and  his  troop  of  children, 
and  then  closes  upon  them  forever.  In  the  play  they  all 
take  refuge  in  a  dim  lighted  cavern  or  cellarage  beneath 
the  ruined  monastery  of  St.  Boniface  in  the  neighbor- 
ing hills. 

In  the  story  a  crippled  cliild,  falling  behind  the  others, 
is  the  only  one  left  in  the  stricken  town.  In  the  play 
the  little  lame  boy  is  carried  triumphantly  upon  the 
Piper's  shoulder.  And  he  it  is  who  furnishes  a  logical 
motive  for  the  culmination  of  the  plot  and  the  return 
of  the  action  upon  itself.  At  the  climactic  point  there 
is  a  fine  scene  of  spiritual  conflict,  in  which  the  Piper, 
strongly  wrought  upon  by  the  indomitable  love  and 
courage  of  Veronika,  the  lame  child's  mother,  gives  over 
his  vengeful  purpose.  At  daybreak  the  next  morning 
he  restores  all  the  children  "  in  one  shower  of  light." 
And  so  the  action,  prolonged  beyond  its  ancient  limits, 
reaches  a  fortunate  ending,  and  gives  the  play  the 
comedic  character  most  appropriate  to  so  unpretend- 
ing a  work. 

The  restoration  of  the  children  brings  about  also  a 
striking  denouement.  As  the  little  Jan  draws  near  the 
town,  Veronika  lies  dying.  Anselm,  the  priest,  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway,  blesses  her  parting  soul.  Will  the 
voice  of  the  child  revive  her?  The  Piper  stretches  his 
arms  toward  the  lighted  window  of  her  house  ^vith  a 
piercing  cry: 

He  comes  —  he  comes !    Open  thine  eyes  a  moment ! 
Blow  the  faint  fire  within  thy  heart.    He  comes ! 

The  casement  of  the  window  opens  slowly  and  two 
white  hands  reach  out.  The  Piper  springs  upon  a 
bench  by  the  house  and  gives  the  boy  into  the  arms 
of  his  mother.     It  is  the  tensest  moment  of  the  play. 


216  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 

As  far  then  as  the  scenes  upon  the  stage  are  con- 
cerned (the  rats  are  piped  away  three  days  before  the 
first  curtain  rises)  the  Piper  is  not  the  supernatural 
apparition  of  the  German  legend.  But  it  becomes  evi- 
dent as  the  drama  unfolds  in  an  atmosphere  slightly 
tinged  with  mystery,  that  the  strange  man,  as  the 
villagers  call  him,  is  something  more  than  an  ordinary] 
vagrant  player.  He  worships  nature,  knows  the  thou- 
sand longings  of  the  earth,  hates  the  sordid  money  lust 
that  kills  all  joy  of  living  among  the  Hamelin  guilds, 
makes  passionate  protest  against  "  that  daily  fear  they 
call  their  faith,"  loves  all  wild  and  innocent  creatures, 
interprets  child  nature  with  unerring  intuition,  shuns 
walls  and  hedges  as  he  shuns  rats  and  aldermen,  and 
yearns  to  teach  old  and  young  the  life  of  the  woods 
and  the  open  sky.  Thus  conceived,  a  dreamer  and  an 
idealist,  but  not  wholly  fantastic,  he  is  thrown  up  large 
against  a  background  of  the  commonplace  and  the 
everyday. 

The  advent  of  the  primitive  faunlike  Piper,  all  quick 
sympathy  and  sparkling  wit  and  gay  good  humor, 
into  the  sleepy  German  hamlet  with  its  money  bag  of 
a  heart  recalls  Ibsen's  Stranger,  that  symbol  of  the 
wide  ocean  and  of  spiritual  freedom,  as  he  appeared  in 
the  stifling  inland  town  where  drooped  and  pined  the 
Lady  from  the  Sea. 

It  always,  however,  taxes  the  ingenuity  to  make  an 
old  myth  take  hold  on  modern  life.  In  this  play  no 
possibility  in  the  none  too  abundant  material  has  been 
neglected.  The  townsfolk  of  Hamelin  (it  has  passed 
into  a  proverb)  refused  to  pay  the  piper.  Here,  then, 
is  a  suggestion  of  the  strong  against  the  weak,  the 
corporation  against  the  individual.  So  the  drama 
makes    the   burgomeister    denounce    the    stroller   as    a 


THE    PLAY    FOR    CHILDREN  217 

wastrel  and  the  shadow  of  a  man,  accuse  him  of  dally- 
ing with  the  law,  deny  him  legal  rights,  taunt  him  with 
having  no  writ  of  agreement,  and  refuse  to  fulfill  the 
oath  and  pay  the  thousand  guilders.  At  this  the  Piper 
retorts  in  the  bitterest  speech  of  the  play  that  he  has 
sworn  "  to  have  some  justice,  all  too  late,  for  wretched 
men,  out  of  these  same  smug  towns,  that  drive  us  forth 
after  the  show."  And  in  this  bitter  speech  are  the  most 
memorable  lines  of  the  play: 

Always,  always,  for  the  lighted  windows 

Of  all  the  world,  the  Dark  outside  is  nothing. 

Then,  since  the  original  piper  was  denounced  as  a 
sorcerer,  and  all  credit  was  given  to  St.  Willibald,  on 
whose  day  the  rats  vanished,  there  is  a  suggestion  of 
religious  intolerance.  "  'T  is  the  hearts  of  men  you 
want,"  cries  the  Piper  to  the  Christ  in  the  ruined 
shrine,  "  no  offerings  more  from  men  that  feed  on  men, 
eternal  psalms  and  endless  cruelties." 

And  finally,  since  the  piper  in  the  legend  took  re- 
venge by  beguiling  all  the  children  to  follow  him  forever, 
there  is  more  than  a  suggestion  that  the  parental  rela- 
tion may  be  considered  to  motive  the  play.  It  stirs  the 
strange  man's  wrath  and  compassion  that  the  children, 
the  brightest  of  miracles,  should  be  left  to  grow  up  in 
the  midst  of  greed,  and  cruelty,  and  lies,  and  cunning, 
and  fear.  So  he  charms  them  away  and  thereby  gets 
the  town  of  Hamelin  in  his  hand.  This  ties  the  knot  of 
the  simple  plot. 

Nor  should  it  be  overlooked  that  there  is  easily  a 
hint  of  Philistinism  —  the  world  against  the  artist. 
"  'T  is  time,"  says  the  Piper,  "  that  Hamelin  reckoned 
us  for  men." 

[The    play    is    popular,    for    in    the    final    act    there 


218  THE    PLAY    OF    THE    DAY 


is  complete  regeneration  of  all  the  characters 
(except  the  miser  and  old  Ursula)  quite  after  the 
fashion  of  "The  Third  Floor  Back."  "Why  do 
women  always  weep  when  anybody  is  reformed  in  the 
theater?  "  inquired  a  reviewer  not  long  ago.  It  is  a 
fact  that  they  weep  and  appear  to  enjoy  their  tears. 
So  the  last  scene  of  "  The  Piper "  is  vastly  com- 
mended. Peter  the  Cobbler  is  an  altered  man ;  the  wife 
of  Hans  the  Butcher  longs  for  the  rats  and  mice  again, 
if  only  the  children  might  come  with  them ;  Axel  the 
Smith  lights  candles  in  daytime  because  the  world  is 
dark;  and  Hans  strikes  a  note  of  real  pathos  when  he 
mourns  for  the  dog  that  pined  and  died  in  the  childless 
town :  "  O,  and  Lump  —  poor  Lump !  More  than  a 
dog  could  bear  !  " 

The  imagination  is  constantly  stimulated.  The  chil- 
dren disappear  at  sunset  and  reappear  at  dawn  in  a 
flood  of  rosy  light.  As  the  action  goes  forward  the 
organ  sounds  from  the  minster,  the  bell  now  tolls  and 
now  clangs,  the  Piper  sings  to  the  children  in  the 
cavern,  the  dismal  chant  of  the  Dies  Irae  is  followed  by 
the  gay  lilt  "  Out  of  your  cage,"  and  the  far  away 
piping  of  the  strange  man  upon  the  high  road  is  the 
last  sound  as  the  final  curtain  comes  down. 

The  play  is  in  verse  that  is  admirably  poetic.  As 
to  whether  verse  is  the  best  medium  of  expression  for 
any  modern  drama,  however  imaginative  —  that  opens 
up  vistas  of  discussion.  The  few  long  speeches  in  this 
play  are  sufficiently  dramatic  —  that  is,  they  are  not 
so  idyllic  that  the  action  breaks  away  from  the  words. 
But  short  speeches  abound  in  every  act,  and  it  is  a 
question  whether  the  metrical  form  should  be  imposed 
upon  page  after  page  of  rapid  colloquy.  Those  who 
are  most  familiar  with  the  dramatic  poetry  of  the  past 


THE    PLAY    FOR    CHILDREN  219 

are   most   sanguine   as   to   the   infinite   possibilities   of 
dramatic  prose  in  the  future. 

But  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  style  of  "  The 
Piper  "  is  so  attractive  that  to  the  reader  at  least  it 
is  one  of  the  greatest  charms  of  the  play. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


^  4  1983 


n^--  o 


JUL  2  0  1989 


orm  L9-Series  4939 


Ji 


■-   "       -      ■     •  '  ■■'^'5RV  FACILITY 


AA    000  407  279 


3  1158  00887  5287 


ll 


